THE  RESCUE  OF 
DESDEMONA  £Bb 
OTHERVE[&E\>y 
WIULIAM  HOOPEH 
HOWEI^US 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


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THE  RESCUE  OF 
D  E  S  D  E  M  ONA 
fcf  OTHER  VERSE 


A.  THE  RESCUE  OF  DBS 
DEMONA  AND  <».  OTHER 
VERSE  «£&,  BY  WILLIAM 
HOOPER  HOWELLS 


Copyright,  zgo8,  by  Gtorgt  Welft  Plank 


PS 


There*  s  nothing  serious  in  publicity 


C^ETTING  at  defiance  the 

immemorial    antagonism 

existing  between  publishers  and 

authors,  and  utterly    ignoring 

this  ancient  feud  with  all  its 

hatred  and  distrust,  I  dedicate 

this   little    book   with  cheerful 

amity  and  child-like  confidence  to 

the  Editors  of  "The  Butterfly:' 

W.  H.  H. 


'Blessed  are  the  peacemakers" 


CONTENTS 


THE  AUTHOR'S  EXCUSE ix 

THE  RESCUE  OF  DESDEMONA  I 

SONNETS 

L'ile  D' Amour 67 

A  Butterfly 68 

The  Flower  and  the  Comet  .          .          .          .69 

New  Providence         ......      7° 

November         .          .          .          .          .          .          •     71 

Charles  Lamb 72 

Buddha 73 

Service 74 

Beneath  the  Snow      .          .          .          .          .          -75 

The  Back  Log 76 

Christmas  at  Home    .          .          .          .          .          •      77 
Sunrise  .......      78 

March .          -79 

February 80 

Mars       .          , 8 1 

vii 


Words 82 

The  Bach  Aria  in  G  .          .          .          .          -83 

In  Memory  of  my  brother  Howard        .          .          -84 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS  AND  LYRICS 

A  Rose  Arose            .         .         .         .         .         .  91 

In  Mexico        .......  92 

Devotion          .......  93 

A  Dining  Room  Panel         .          .          .          .          '95 

Unknown          .......  96 

Habit 98 

Otto  of  Roses            ......  99 

The  Butterfly  and  the  Thistle       .          .          .          .  101 

On  Cape  Cod  .          .          .          .          .          .103 

Bobolink 104 

In  Berlin 105 

Fidelis  Paupertas 106 


IT  is  customary  for  most  authors  to  introduce 
themselves  and  work  to  their  readers  through 
the  medium  of  a  more  or  less  prolix  "  Preface," 
"  Foreword,"    "  Introduction,"    "  Apology,"    or 
"  Explanation." 

The  infinite  number  and  variety  of  disin- 
genuous excuses  that  have  been  employed  by 
them  to  palliate  the  just  indignation  of  a  long- 
suffering  public,  leave  but  one  to  the  author 
which  has  not  already  been  used  to  the  vanishing 
point  of  patience,  and  upon  which  he  seizes  with 
avidity. 

Happily  the  sentiment  of  mankind  covers 
the  errors  of  extreme  youth  with  the  stainless 
mantle  of  charity.  The  sins  and  follies  of  the 

ix 


young  become  crimes  and  misdemeanors  in  the 
old,  and  for  this  reason  only  dare  the  author  of 
Desdemona,  handicapped  with  lack  of  years  and 
experience,  diffidently  approach  his  readers,  as- 
sured that  through  his  youth  alone  he  must 
expect  absolution. 

If  any  other  excuse  were  necessary  for  the 
publication  of  this  afflictive  volume,  it  may  be 
found  only  by  the  profoundly  astute,  in  the  very 
old,  hackneyed  and  vulgar  motive  on  the  part  of 
this  writer  to  experience  the  deliciously  novel 
sensation  of  speculating  upon  his  own  exertions, 
and  enjoying  a  reasonable  share  of  the  anticipated 
deficit.  w.  H.  H. 


THE  RESCUE  OF  DESDEMONA 


IN  Venice,  long  ago,  when  doges  great 
Maintained  with  patriotic  zeal  the  State  ; 
When  glory  like  a  mantle  robed  the  queen 
Of  Adria's  waters  with  a  golden  sheen ; 
When  speedy  galleys  bore  her  warriors  brave 
The  foe  to  conquer,  and  the  friend  to  save, 
Or  sailed  afar  from  Campanile  bells 
To  smite  the  Turk  within  the  Dardanelles — 
'Twas  then,  in  that  remote,  heroic  day 
Occurred  the  incidents  that  move  this  lay, 
And  stirred  the  heart  of  many  a  merry  maid 
To  thoughts  amusing,  when  the  evening  shade 


Descended  on  the  streets  that  ebb  and  rise 
With  muffled  cadence  'neath  the  Bridge  of  Sighs. 

'Twas  night.      Brabantio  in  his  palace  fair 
Slept  lightly  as  a  man  enslaved  by  care. 
An  ancient  senator  of  some  renown, 
Holding  high  place  within  the  island  town, 
He  spent  the  half  retirement  of  his  age 
In  public  estimation  rich  and  sage. 
He  slept,  but  through  the  twilight  of  his  mind 
Beheld  a  dream  of  evil  slowly  wind, 
And  startled  woke  to  hear  about  his  door 
A  tumult  like  a  battle,  and  a  roar 
Of  voices  raucous,  bidding  him  awaken, 
For  that  his  only  child  her  leave  had  taken 
Without  his  leave,  and  gone  with  one  Othello, 
A  soldier  of  the  State,  a  splendid  fellow, 
Whose  greatest  crime  was  that  of  being  yellow. 
Brabantio  from  the  casement  poked  his  head, 
And  argued  with  the  rioters  below ; 
Disturbed  and  much  incensed,  he  sternly  said 
That  to  the  devil  they  might  promptly  go. 
But  when  he  recognized  Roderigo  there, 
A  youth  whose  suit  for  Desdemona's  hand 
Had  been  non-suited,  blowing  through  the  air 
Hot  wads  of  warning  and  of  reprimand, 
He  thought  it  best  to  ascertain  with  speed 
What  reasons  could  be  found  for  such  a  deed. 


These  failing,  he  resolved  that  young  Roderigo 
Should  find  his  person  parted  from  his  ego. 
So,  summoning  his  servants  in  hot  haste, 
They  searched  the  palace,  cupboards,  attics,  halls ; 
The  screens  and  furniture  were  much  displaced, 
But  all  in  vain — no  answer  to  their  calls 
Fell  on  the  anxious  sire's  attentive  ears — 
A  fact  which  strongly  verified  his  fears. 
Robing  himself  with  rage  and  other  clothing, 
He  joined  Roderigo,  voicing  loud  his  loathing 
For  Moors  in  general,  but  Othello  most, 
To  whom  he  oft  had  played  the  gracious  host, 
Unthinking  that  the  soldier's  tales  of  slaughter 
Could  win  the  favor  of  his  listening  daughter. 
To  talk  and  trade,  or  gamble  for  simoleans 
With  negro,  Turk,  or  even  with   Mongolians, 
May  do — but  when  they  marry  our  relations, 
It  rather  spoils  the  gaiety  of  nations. 
So,  filled  with  vengeance,  out  into  the  night 
Went  old  Brabantto  with  retainers  ten, 
Each  with  a  flaming  torch  and  sword  bedight, 
To  join  with  young  Roderigo  and  his  men, 
Thus  making  quite  a  formidable  squad — 
And  forth  they  fared,  resolved  the  Moor  to  prod. 

Now,  one  lago,  connoisseur  in  sin, 

Othello's  "Ancient" — meaning  understrapper — 

Was  the  prime  mover  in  the  shocking  din, 


In  truth,  Roderigo's  prompter  in  the  matter. 
But  when  he  saw  Brabantio  coming  down, 
He  said  to  Rod,  "Dear  boy,  I  hold  it  fit 
And  best  for  me  that  I  should  instant  flit 
To  some  more  quiet  portion  of  the  town ; 
But  you  will  find  me  with  my  hated  master, 
Engaged  in  nursing  this  unfledged  disaster 
Which  I  will  nurture  with  such  cunning  art 
That,  when  mature,  a  feather  it  will  shed 
To  wing  the  arrow  that  shall  reach  the  heart 
Of  this  same  Moor,  and  bow  his  head 
In  dark  humiliation — patient  wait ; 
To  Desdemona  this  shall  be  your  gate — 
Be  gay,  and  hope — put  money  in  thy  purse, 
And  help  the  ancient  senator  to  curse." 
Thus  saying,  to  his  heels  lago  took 
With  such  good  speed  as  to  escape  the  look 
Which  old  Brabantio,  with  suspicion  fleet 
Cast  all  about  him  when  he  reached  the  street. 
Loud  the  magnifico's  wild  lamentation, 
Denouncing  bitterly  miscigination. 
He  mourned  his  daughter's  loss  in  every  key 
That  touched  the  chord  of  hopeless  misery, 
And  then  asserted,  as  an  afterthought, 
That  direful  spells  of  magic  had  been  wrought 
To  blind  her  senses  and  her  reason  blight, 
Ere  to  the  Moor  she  could  her  fealty  plight — 
To  all  of  which  Roderigo  gave  his  backing, 


Asserting  he  himself  had  read  of  cases 
Where  youths  of  merit  had  received  a  sacking 
From  maids  bewitched  by  men  of  other  races : 
Which  clearly  shows,  Caucasians  even  then 
Possessed  a  hate  for  worthy  colored  men. 

Meantime  lago  to  his  chief  had  sped, 
And  thus,  with  seeming  diffidence,  he  said: 
"My  lord,  I  late  have  heard  your  honored  name 
Allied  with  all  the  epithets  of  shame. 
The  old  Brabantio  in  a  fury  swears 
That  you,  by  hellish,  necromantic  snares 
Have  ta'en  away  his  daughter ;  and  declares 
Your  life  shall  pay  the  forfeit  for  this  act,' 
And  hither  shortly  comes  with  venom  packed, 
By  relatives  and  vengeful  friends  attended 
To  see  your  great  career  abruptly  ended. 
I  was  sore  tempted  the  old  ass  to  slay, 
And  many  times  my  sword  was  fain  to  leap 
In  wrath  well  justified,  his  breath  to  stay. 
But  'tis  my  fault.     I  never  yet  could  keep 
The  thought  of  murder  long  enough  aglow 
To  nerve  the  arm  which  should  impel  the  blow; 
Though  in  the  rage  of  battle,  I  confess, 
My  active  blade  knew  naught  of  idleness  ; 
And  on  the  trembling  field,  without  remorse, 
Piled  the  red  earth  with  many  a  pallid  corse. 
But  look,  my  liege!    Brabantio  approaches. 


Let  us  away,  escaping  his  reproaches." 

The  Moor  with  lofty  thought  and  self-control 

Said,  "Nay,  lago.     Shall  my  perfect  soul 

Stoop  cringing  then  to  any  craven  fear? 

No  !    Let  them  come,  mine  Ancient,  I  am  here!" 

And  come  they  did,  a  very  pretty  crowd, 

With  torch  and  sword  and  imprecations  loud, 

And  flashing  arms  and  robes  of  Tyrian  dye — 

A  shining  show,  presenting  to  the  eye 

A  scene  which,  doubled  in  the  grand  canal, 

Shone  like  a  gay  nocturnal  carnival, 

Mocking  night's  sombre  visage  and  beguiling 

The  sable  goddess  into  fitful  smiling. 

But  on  Brabantio's  livid  countenance 
No  traces  of  a  smile  were  seen  to  glance 
When  he  observed  the  Moor  with  hauty  pose, 
Audacious,  stand  before  his  very  nose. 
It  seemed,  indeed,  for  one  brief  moment's  flight, 
As  though  the  devil  had  contrived  a  fight, 
lago  swaggering  forward  cocked  his  plume, 
And  to  Roderigo  said,  with  wink  of  gloom, 
"You,  sir,  shall  be  my  foeman  in  this  row. 
Come,  draw  your  sword,  and  we'll  begin  it  now  ! 
In  combat  I'm  a  hungry  epicure, 
And  long  to  drape  your  giblets  on  my  skewer." 
The  Moor,  however,  bade  the  riot  cease ; 
For,  though  his  occupation  made  for  peace 


Through  war  alone,  he  justly,  to  his  thinking, 
Claimed  rank  and  title  to  commence  the  pinking. 
The  old  Brabantio  during  this  confab 
Had  never  ceased  the  shrinking  air  to  stab 
With  vocal  weapons,  and  abuse  to  bellow 
With  sundry  maledictions  on  Othello. 
"Where  is  my   daughter,"  quoth   he,  "damned 

black? 

Thy  wizard  limbs  shall  stretch  upon  the  rack. 
No  power  but  sorcery  could  maid  seduce 
From  home  patrician,  save  by  some  abuse 
Of  nature  and  of  reason.     Sooty  skin 
Might  never  yet  a  lily  maiden  win. 
I  charge  you,  officers,  this  man  arrest ; 
To  prison  take  him  ;  I  will  do  the  rest. 
To  prosecute  this  case  before  my  peers 
I  dedicate  my  ducats  and  my  years." 
Just  at  this  point  Othello's  right-hand  man, 
One  Cassio,  came  abruptly  on  the  scene, 
And,  pausing  not  belligerants  to  scan, 
Went  to  his  chief,  and  with  respectful  mien 
Said,  "Sir,  the  Duke  is  most  importunate 
To  see  you  at  the  Council  of  the  State, 
And  I  am  charged  to  bring  you  with  all  speed 
Before  him ;  nothing  should  your  haste  impede. 
Late  Cyprian  news  the  Senate  has  provoked, 
And  your  advice  is  urgently  invoked." 
Then  to  Brabantio  turned  the  Moor,  and  said, 


"  You  hear  the  message.     Peril  not  your  head 
By  thwarting  my  obedience  to  the  Duke ; 
Othello  never  shall  deserve  rebuke 
For  laggard  steps  when  voice  of  duty  calls — 
Therefore  make  way.     Cassio,  lago,  come." 
At  this,  the  Senator  to  silence  falls. 
His  posse  comitatus,  looking  glum, 
Fell  back  to  right  and  left  before  the  Moor, 
Who  swept  between  them  stately  and  secure. 
Then  old  Brabantio  shouted  with  some  vigor 
This  final  insult,  which  contained  much  gall : 
"You're  nothing  but  a  pestilential  nigger — 
Simply  a  nigger — do  you  hear?     That's  all !" 
Now,  I  maintain  Brabantio  coined  this  word, 
As  previous  to  that  time  'twas  never  heard. 
Through  ancient  archives,  sacred  and  profane, 
A  careful  quest  has  only  proved  in  vain. 
The  word  was  born  of  hate,  by  hatred  flung 
With  dire  intent  to  sting — and  so  it  stung; 
And  ever  since  has  run  its  shameful  paces, 
Employed  and  loved  by  Anglo-Saxon  races. 
I  have  seen  negroes  black  as  opera  hats 
Fight  to  the  death  like  fierce  Kilkenny  cats, 
Because,  when  swapping  hot  disparagement, 
One  or  the  other  utterly  forgetting 
The  ethics  of  abuse,  too  eloquent 
Had  given  to  the  air  that  word,  upsetting 
In  one  brief  moment  all  ideas  of  peace, 


Which  honking  vanished  like  a  flock  of  geese. 
So  you'll  agree  that  in  this  word  so  weird 
Resides  a  potency  which  should  be  feared. 
Othello  heard  the  taunt,  and  pausing  turned, 
Looked  at  Brabantio  with  eyes  that  burned, 
And  said,  with  quiet  and  majestic  air, 
"  My  lord,  you  go  too  far — but  have  a  care — 
Consider  this :  no  bird  is  half  so  vile 
As  that  which  doth  himself  his  nest  defile; 
And,  if  this  will  not  close  your  blatant  maw, 
Remember  that  I  am  your  son-in-law." 
The  Moor  resumed  his  way  serenely  proud, 
While  silence  for  a  moment  held  the  crowd. 
The  Senator  incensed  soon  broke  the  spell 
And  cried,  "  We  to  the  Duke  will  go  as  well, 
And  there  before  the  Council  of  the  State 
Will  I  my  own  and  daughter's  wrongs  relate, 
And  crave  redress,  which  no  one  dare  deny  : 
My  cause  will  triumph  and  the  Moor  shall  die!' 
So  said,  so  done.     Brabantio  and  all 
Followed  Othello  to  the  ducal  hall. 

In  the  great  Senate  chamber  of  the  State 
The  Duke  and  Council  sat  in  high  debate, 
Resolving  means  to  thwart  the  Moslem  host 
Which  sailed  in  sixty  galleys  for  the  coast 
Of  Cyprus,  with  intent  the  isle  to  sack 
And  take  away  that  very  bric-a-brac 


Which  now  adorns  our  Central  Park  museums — 
Placed  by  Cesnola  there  with  loud  Te  Deums. 
The  hour  was  late  when  through  the  portal  entered 
A  group  on  which  the  Senate's  eyes  were  centered. 
First  came  Othello,  by  his  staff  attended, 
In  flowing  robes  of  price  and  armor  splendid; 
And  then  Brabantio,  with  a  visage  green, 
And  his  retainers — possibly  seventeen. 

Imposing  silence  with  a  waving  hand, 

The  Duke  arose  and  spoke  in  accents  bland : 

"Valiant  Othello,  sit  at  my  right  hand ; 

Thrice  welcome  are  you,  for  the  public  need 

Is  such  that  we  must  operate  with  speed. 

To  you,  Brabantio,  also  welcome  goes, 

For  your  advice  is  poison  to  our  foes." 

Up  spoke  the  seignior  with  exceeding  ire : 

"Your  Grace,  I  come  not  here  on  state  affairs 

Which  well  may  pause  before  a  grief  so  dire, 

A  wrong  so  terrible,  that  other  cares 

Seem  but  to  me  as  trifling  and  as  light 

As  nip  of  flea  against  a  lion's  bite. 

My  lord,  by  sorcery  and  enchantment  swayed, 

My  daughter  Desdemona,  virtuous  maid, 

Has  by  a  damned  villain  been  betrayed, 

Abducted  from  my  palace  and  conveyed 

To  spot  unknown.      I  therefore  beg  your  grace 

That  my  petition  shall  have  primal  place, 


And  that  the  law  may  instantly  proceed 

To  save  my  daughter  and  avenge  this  deed." 

Astonishment  and  stillness  all  unbroken 

Fell  on  the  Senate  when  these  words  were  spoken  ; 

Until  the  Duke  the  following  decision 

Pronounced  judicially  with  firm  precision : 

"  If  what  you  say,  Brabantio,  is  true, 

The  law  shall  be  administered  by  you; 

You  shall  decide  the  punishment  exact, 

Most  fit  to  recompense  such  dastard  act. 

Who  is  the  caitiff  subject  to  this  charge? — 

For  he  no  longer  shall  remain  at  large." 

Upon  the  face  of  the  magnifico 

There  gleamed  a  smile  of  premature  delight, 

And  with  a  jeweled  finger  pointing  slow, 

He  said,  "  I  charge  the  man  upon  your  right. 

The  false  Othello  is  the  woman  thief 

That  worked  through  charms  this  deed  of  shame 

and  grief." 

He  paused,  and  all  the  Senate  in  confusion 
Supposed  Brabantio  suffering  from  illusion. 
Besides,  the  Moor,  a  general  of  renown, 
Was  never  yet  so  needed  by  the  town 
To  check  the  Turk,  and  backward  swiftly  thrust 

him, 

Or  on  the  coast  of  Cyprus  simply  bust  him. 
Therefore  the  Duke,  commanding  silence,  said, 
"  Othello,  you  have  heard  this  plea  severe ; 


Make  answer,  then,  I  charge  you  on  your  head, 
The  truth  relate,  nor  for  our  justice  fear. 
In  law,  the  evidence  on  either  side 
Must  still  be  heard  before  the  court  decide ; 
And  oftentimes  the  story  first  rehearsed, 
After  the  second,  proves  a  bubble  burst." 
Thus  conjured  by  the  Duke,  Othello  rose 
With  dauntless  mien, confronting  friends  and  foes, 
And  said,  "Most  potent,  grave  and  reverend  sirs, 
My  very  worthy  and  approved  good  masters, 
That  I  am  charged  with  this  offending,  stirs 
My  spirit  more  than  blazing  war's  disasters. 
That  I  have  ta'en  this  old  man's  child  away 
And  married  her,  is  patent  as  the  day; 
But  as  for  spells  and  charms,  or  magic  potions, 
Devices  dark,  or  other  devilish  notions, 
My  open  life,  untouched  of  secret  guile, 
Might  well  refute  such  allegations  vile. 
I'd  rather  be  a  fiddler  from  Cremona 
Than  win  by  fraud  the  lovely  Desdemona. 
Rude,  sirs,  am  I  of  speech,  and  lack  the  skill 
Your  ears  with  subtle  eloquence  to  fill, 
For  all  my  youth,  in  camp  and  battle  spent, 
Has  little  fostered  studious  ornament ; 
Yet  will  I  strive  a  story  to  recount, 
Which  may,  my  lords,  your  prejudice  surmount; 
Of  how  I  prospered  in  the  lady's  wooing 
And  what  black  arts  attended  on  my  suing. 


This  tale,  to  bear  conviction  to  your  thought, 
Should  by  my  wife  have  ample  reinforcement. 
I  therefore  beg  the  lady  may  be  brought ; 
My  life  I  stake  on  her  complete  endorsement. 
Go,  then,  mine  Ancient,  with  attendants  three, 
And  hither  Desdemona  bring  to  me." 
At  this  the  old  Brabantio  interjected, 
"  This  suits  my  book,  though  rather  unexpected. 
I  did  not  think  the  Moor  had  such  a  cheek. 
He  lies,  and  bluffs  and  boasts  like  any  Greek! 
My  daughter  will  refute  his  paltry  claims, 
And  I  shall  laugh  to  see  the  scamp  in  chains." 
The  Duke,  however,  said  with  easy  grace, 
"  Seignior  Brabantio,  kindly  close  your  face  ; 
Othello  will  proceed  with  his  recital, 
To  prove  the  lady  his  by  rightful  title." 
Without  delay  the  Moor  his  tale  began, 
And  thus  the  interesting  story  ran: 
"Her  father  loved  me;  to  his  palace  fine 
Invited  me  full  oft  to  sup  or  dine; 
And  though  he  hates  me  now,  I  must  confess 
That  with  his  terrapin  and  champagne  sec 
He  was  profuse  almost  to  an  excess, 
Till  I  was  frequent  loaded  to  the  neck. 
At  his  request  I  told  him  of  the  frights 
And  dangers  I  had  borne ;  the  frantic  fights, 
When  in  the  deadly  breach,  with  hope  forlorn, 
I  had  been  stricken  in  the  battle's  storm  ; 
13 


The  cannibals  by  whom  I  was  enslaved; 
The  desert  Dinosaurus  that  I  braved. 
The  Duck-billed  Platypus,  whose  horrid  peck 
Had  ripped  a  hole  athwart  my  galley's  deck, 
Walked  through  the  orifice,  and  there  and  then 
Devoured  alive  a  moiety  of  my  men — 
'Twas  very  impolite,  as  no  one  knew  him — 
And  being  slightly  vexed,  by  Jove !   I  slew  him ! 
Compared  with  him  in  size  the  ancient  roc 
Was  little  larger  than  a  bantam  cock. 
'Twas  also  mine  to  hint  that  on  the  Nile 
I  once  was  swallowed  by  a  crocodile, 
And  lived  for  many  days  and  trying  nights 
Exclusively  upon  the  creature's  lights; 
Until  one  morn  I  heard  an  auto  honk, 
And  recognized  my  friend  the  jabberwonk. 
He  at  my  instance  killed  the  saurian  beast, 
Ripped  up  the  monster  and  myself  released. 
Then,  too,  I  told  him,  not  without  a  sigh, 
About  the  cheerless  anthropophagi — 
Pigmies,  whose  heads  beneath  their  arms  are  seen — 
Which  makes  them  awkward  for  the  guillotine 
And  fills  the  sad  beholder  with  vexation, 
Repelling  any  thought  of  annexation 
By  matrimonial  association. 
These  stories  Desdemona  partly  heard 
While  pouring  wine,  or  carving  of  a  bird ; 
But  running  out  to  buy  a  can  of  beer, 
14 


And  being  sometimes  there  and  sometimes  here, 

Did  with  her  interest  greatly  interfere. 

And  so  she  begged  that  I  would  please  detail 

In  chronologic  order  all  the  tale, 

So  that  she  might  my  whole  career  survey 

Like  to  the  scene  of  some  distressful  play. 

This  then  I  did,  from  boyhood  to  the  end ; 

And  for  my  pains  she  gave  a  world  of  sighs, 

And  told  me  frankly  if  I  had  a  friend 

Would  truly  woo  her,  he  might  come  anigh 

And  boldly  sue,  if  he  my  tale  could  tell 

In  terms  like  mine,  or  only  half  so  well. 

Upon  this  hint,  my  hopes  to  heaven  flew. 

I  looked  into  her  eyes  of  thrilling  blue, 

And  felt  the  anguish  of  a  love  as  great 

As  ever  struggled  with  the  gods  of  fate. 

The  rest  you  know,  my  lords;  and  if  in  this 

There  hides  enchantment,  or  aught  else  amiss, 

I  am  prepared  the  penalty  to  pay, 

Say  to  the  world  'good-bye,'  and  close  the  day." 

Othello  paused.     A  murmur  of  applause 
Followed  his  story  and  approved  his  cause. 
The  Duke,  concurring  with  the  general  tone, 
Observed  that,  speaking  for  himself  alone, 
He  thought  that  such  a  tale,  so  deftly  told, 
Would  doubtless  take  an  overmastering  hold 
Upon  the  heart  of  almost  any  maid, 
15 


And  candidly  confessed  he  was  afraid 
That  his  own  daughter  hardly  could  resist 
The  charm  of  such  a  verbal  alchemist; 
And  therefore  he  advised  Brabantio 
To  stay  his  suit  and  let  the  matter  go — 
With  Moor  and  Desdemona  patch  a  truce, 
And  send  the  angry  passions  to  the  deuce. 
For,  after  all,  if  from  the  wine-skin  leaks 
One-half  its  contents  through  the  bearer's  cheeks, 
What  sort  of  idiot  he,  its  loss  deploring, 
Beggars  himself  still  more  by  promptly  pouring 
The  precious  residue,  with  haste  insane 
And  wanton  folly,  down  the  kitchen  drain  ? 
To  this  Brabantio  brieflly  made  reply: 
"My  lord,  your  wisdom  clearly  I  descry; 
And  should  it  seem  by  Desdemona's  story 
That  she  herself  was  party  to  this  wooing, 
I  will  renounce  my  late  intentions  gory, 
And  mar  no  more  their  billing  and  their  cooing. 
But  here  she  comes.     Daughter,  attend  to  me; 
Look  round  this  chamber;  tell  us  if  you  see 
The  one  to  whom  obedience  is  due — 
He  whose  authority  comes  first  with  you." 
The  lovely  Desdemona,  thus  addressed, 
Surveyed  the  scene  with  eyes  of  gentian  hue 
Which  found  Othello  by  instinctive  quest, 
And  beamed  with  joy  upon  his  face  to  rest. 
Long  was  the  look,  while  all  the  Council  bent 

16 


To  hear  the  answer  Desdemona  sent. 
Then  turning  to  her  father,  thus  she  spake 
In  tones  that  made  the  soul  of  music  wake: 
"To  you,  sir,  I  protest  my  life  I  owe, 
And  what  I  am  in  learning  or  in  grace ; 
But  to  the  Moor  must  my  allegiance  go. 
The  force  of  Nature's  law  in  this  we  trace, 
For,  as  my  mother  left  her  sire  for  you, 
So  I  to  such  example  shall  be  true." 
Thus  Desdemona  closed  her  brief  oration; 
Othello's  heart  leaped  up  with  adoration. 
The  Senators  and  Duke  were  all  elate, 
The  Moor  was  saved  for  service  to  the  State, 
Brabantio,  gloomily  resigned,  confessed 
That  to  submit  to  fate  was  sometimes  best ; 
But  warned  Othello  that,  by  her  deceived, 
His  daughter  never  more  could  be  believed. 
To  all  of  which  Othello  smiled  defiance, 
And  on  his  wife  swore  absolute  reliance. 
Roderigo  mourned  and  thought  the  chances  poor 
For  ever  winning  love  from  Mrs.  Moor, 
lago  smoothed  his  brow,  but  deep  within 
More  deeply  plotted  treachery  and  sin. 
And  so  the  Moor  was  ordered  to  take  ship 
That  very  night,  and  make  a  hasty  trip 
To  Cyprus,  while  the  lady's  earnest  pleading 
Gained  from  the  Duke  an  order  briefly  reading 
That  she  to  Cyprus  should  next  day  proceed 
17 


On  his  own  private  yacht,  the  Centipede, 

Attended  by  lago  and  his  wife, 

Emilia,  with  other  escort  fit 

To  make  excursion  safely  through  the  strife, 

Should  they  unhappily  encounter  it. 

This  business  being  speedily  concluded, 

The  company  departed  each  his  way, 

Leaving  Roderigo  to  be  more  deluded 

Under  lago's  base,  malignant  sway. 

These  two  then  confidentially  inclined, 

The  fool  and  villain  each  expressed  his  mind. 

The  first  began,  and  this,  Roderigo  said : 

"lago,  all  my  cherished  hopes  are  dead; 

My  goose  is  cooked  ;  my  blooming  cake  is  dough; 

My  heart  is  bankrupt.     Presently  I  go 

To  feed  the  lobsters  in  the  Grand  Canal 

And  end  a  ruined  life.     Good-bye,  old  pal." 

Then  spake  lago  with  satanic  sneer, 

"  Soul  of  a  chipmunk,  what  is  this  I  hear? 

Throw  up  the  game  when  fortune  just  begins 

To  show  relenting  and  her  smiles  disburse 

By  handing  you  the  very  card  that  wins  ? 

For  shame  !    go  to !    Put  money  in  thy  purse. 

Take  ship  with  me  and  my  fair  charge  to-morrow; 

Meantime  fly  'round  the  town  and  ducats  borrow. 

Be  near  the  lady,  and  some  happy  chance 

Will  most  assuredly  your  cause  advance. 

Go  seek  for  shekels  and  the  fat  doubloon, 

18 


And  I  will  guarantee  within  a  moon 

The  Moor  and  Desdemona,  now  so  fond, 

Will  rage  and  execrate  the  marriage  bond. 

Cash  is  a  goad  to  hurry  slow  events  ; 

Be  well  advised  by  me  —  collect  your  rents  ; 

To  uttermost  extent  your  wad  expand, 

And  I  will  weave  a  net  which,  strand  by  strand, 

Will  grow  so  large  that  greater  than  the  Moor 

Could  not  escape  its  mental  meshes  sure. 

Therefore  away,  nor  like  a  dodo  peek  ; 

The  festive  copeck  diligently  seek, 

While  I  confusion  raise  by  ways  oblique." 

Much  cheered  by  this  infernal  exhortation, 

Roderigo  felt  a  pleasing  exultation  ; 

Declared  his  hopes  revived,  his  vision  cleared, 

The  phantoms  of  despair  all  disappeared  ; 

His  mind  made  up  to  go  upon  the  cruise, 

Selling,  before  he  started,  to  the  Jews 

The  small  remains  of  that  which  was  of  late 

A  very  portly  and  admired  estate. 

And  so,  on  this  fool's  errand  firmly  bent, 

He  said  good-night,  and  on  his  way  he  went. 

lago  left  alone  to  crimes  devising, 
Touched  by  the  moon,  began  soliloquizing, 
And  in  the  ear  of  night  made  this  confession 
Of  villainy  too  wicked  for  expression  : 
"  Thus  do  I  turn  this  fool  into  a  bank 
19 


From  which  I  draw  full  many  a  useful  franc. 

With  my  attainments  and  experience  ripe, 

How  could  I  otherwise  endure  this  snipe, 

This  rotten  artichoke,  this  fulsome  weed, 

But  that  I  feast  upon  his  idiot  breed 

And  find  amusement  in  the  subtle  skill 

With  which  I  bend  such  rabbits  to  my  will  ? 

As  for  Othello,  whom  I  dearly  hate, 

There  must  be  something  doing  to  abate 

His  joy,  and  turn  the  current  of  his  bliss 

Away  from  sunlight  and  the  cheerful  air, 

To  flow  in  darkness  through  that  deep  abyss 

Gulfing  the  solemn  waters  of  despair. 

His  mind  I  will  abuse  with  hints  so  vague 

That,  ere  he  dreams  it,  stricken  by  the  plague 

Of  jealousy,  his  wife  he  shall  suspect, 

And  think  that  Cassio  occupies  her  heart 

To  his  exclusion.     Then  will  he  detect 

In  acts  of  innocence,  deceiving  art; 

And  urged  along  by  me,  in  fitting  time, 

May  cap  his  folly  with  a  deed  of  crime. 

That  Cassio's  place  would  then  to  me  accrue 

Seems  just  as  sure  as  that  twice  one  are  two. 

So  will  I  work  this  devil's  brew  to  boil, 

And  find  delight,  amusement,  in  the  toil. 

Let  conscience  still  with  feeble  fools  reside, 

No  truckling  scruples  shall  my  course  misguide." 


NIGH  to  the  Syrian  coast  there  lies  an  isle 
Within  a  wine-dark  sea,  so  passing  fair 
That  ardent  summer's  everlasting  smile 
Finds  a  perpetual  enticement  there. 
Here  stands  Olympus  beautiful  and  vast, 
On  which  the  older  gods  held  ancient  sway, 
Ruling  the  vanished  peoples  of  the  past, 
And  now  with  them  lapsed  ruthless  to  decay. 
Here  grew  the  choicest,  most  luxuriant  vines, 
With  figs  and  olives,  on  the  bending  hills; 
Here  for  the  Malta  Knights  were  pressed  such 

wines 

As  only  royal  flagon  sometimes  fills ; 
And  here  the  Persian  roses  never-failing 
Dispersed  their  attar  perfumes  so  regaling 
That  merchant  vessels  'round  the  island  skirting 
Could  hardly  keep  their  sailors  from  deserting; 
While  Cyprian  ladies,  for  their  beauty  noted, 
Attracted  almost  everything  that  floated  — 
In  fact,  it  may  be  understood  between  us 
That  Bacchus  here  was  born,  and  also  Venus — 
And  thus  you  see  why  Venice  overworked 
To  keep  this  luscious  land  from  being  Turked. 

At  Famagosta,  on  a  terrace  wide 
That  overlooked  the  city  and  the  tide, 
Flanked  by  the  massive  gates  and  gloomy  walls 
Of  fort  and  castle  higher  than  St.  Paul's, 


There  stood  one  morning  Cassio  and  three 

Good  soldier  friends  who  watched  the  distant  sea, 

As  being  anxious  first  of  all  to  mark 

Othello's  storm-tossed  and  belated  bark. 

Not  long  they  waited  when,  surprised,  they  saw 

A  gallant  group  arrive  and  nearer  draw, 

And  Cassio  knew  at  once  fair  Desdemona 

By  the  bewitching  twist  of  her  kimona 

And  her  attendants,  among  whom  there  were 

I  ago  and  his  wife,  Emelia  fair; 

And  fatuous  Roderigo,  too,  was  there, 

With  others  of  less  note,  all  glad  to  get 

Upon  the  friendly  earth;  for  wringing  wet 

They  found  the  boisterous  and  raging  ocean, 

From  which  they  shrank,  especially  the  motion. 

Delighted,  Cassio  advanced  and  took 

The  hand  of  Desdemona  with  a  look 

Expressive  of  the  most  profound  respect, 

As  though  he  thought  her  of  the  saints  elect ; 

Gave  a  good  welcome  to  the  Cyprian  ground, 

And  to  his  friends  presented  her  all  'round 

With  words  of  praise  so  steeped  in  pure  sincerity 

That  none  who  listened  could  suspect  his  verity. 

Then  turning  to  Emelia,  he  kissed  her, 

And  told  lago  only  as  a  sister 

Did  he  salute  the  lady ;  and  politely 

The  Ancient  begged  to  view  the  matter  lightly. 

With  ill  concealed  disgust  lago  hinted 


That  virtue  was  a  coin  not  often  minted ; 

A  currency  with  little  circulation 

Between  the  men  and  women  of  his  nation — 

An  observation  heartily  condemned 

By  Desdemona,  who  refused  to  lend 

Her  lovely  countenance  to  such  a  treason 

Without  some  personal,  provoking  reason. 

Just  now  there  was  no  joy  in  anything 

On  earth  or  sea  for  her  which  did  not  bring 

Some  news  of  her  dear  lord  Othello's  weal, 

With  safe  assurance  of  his  tardy  keel. 

Now  hardly  had  this  sentiment  been  uttered 

When  all  the  harbor  guns  began  to  roar ; 

Little    and    big,    with    flame   and    smoke   they 

sputtered, 

Saluting  some  arrival  ofF  the  shore, 
While  round  the  cape  might  every  eye  discern 
Othello's  mighty  galley  make  the  turn 
And  run  for  port  with  flags  and  banners  flying, 
Three  banks  of  oars  in  splendid  tempo  plying, 
And  all  some  great  emergency  implying. 
A  gallant  sight;  for  truly,  on  the  level, 
That  boat  was  coming  like  the  very  devil. 
It  reached  the  shore  and,  with  a  heavy  shock 
Not  well  retarded,  ran  against  the  dock. 
The  Moor  in  haste,  omitting  ceremonial, 
Attended  by  some  members  of  his  suite, 
Forgetting  everything  not  Desdemonial, 
23 


Mounted  the  castle  stairs  with  rapid  feet 
And  there  before  him  on  the  esplanade 
Beheld  his  gentle  lady  and  her  maid. 
With  every  indication  of  delight 
His  spouse  gave  welcome  to  her  dusky  knight, 
While  he  explained  what  tempests  had  attacked 
His  vessel,  which  indeed  was  badly  wracked, 
A  very  slight  misfortune  when  compared 
With  what  the  Turk  sustained,  for  'twas  declared 
That  all  the  Moslem  fleet,  dispersed  and  sunk, 
Had  no  more  fight  than  poor  Cervera's  junk ; 
And  Venice,  therefore  safe  from  paynim  threat, 
Might  rule  in  peace  and  minimize  her  debt. 
The  Moor  thus  briefly  summed  the  situation 
And  from  all  sides  received  congratulation, 
But  most  from  Desdemona,  whose  warm  eyes 
Meant  to  Othello  more  than  Paradise. 
And  so,  with  mutual  joy  and  great  content, 
Toward  the  castle  all  the  party  went. 

Sometimes  across  the  philologic  stage 
There  stalks  a  word  which  actually  seems 
To  have  descended  from  a  former  age, 
Bringing  some  spiritual  force  which  teems 
With  power  to  raise  the  phantoms  of  the  past, 
And  paint  upon  the  canvas  of  the  mind 
Imaginary  scenes  and  pictures  vast 
Of  old  events  and  peoples  now  declined  ; 
24 


And  such  a  word — coincidence  amusing — 
The  Moor  is  on  the  very  point  of  using, 
When,  turning  to  lago,  he  commanded 
Him  to  the  quay  to  see  his  "coffers"  landed. 
"Coffers." — No  sooner  said  but  you  behold 
The  tribute  paid  to  kings ;  a  prince's  ransom ; 
The  loot  from  cities  sacked ;  barbaric  gold ; 
A  pirate's  plunder,  and  his  captives  handsome ; 
The  spoils  from  many  a  violated  fane, 
Of  church  or  temple,  sacred  or  profane ; 
Jewels  and  priceless  stuffs,  and  armor  rare; 
And  diamonds  only  conquerors  might  wear. 

In  all  the  shabby  wealth  that  Wall  Street  offers 
There's  nothing  to  remind  a  man  of  "coffers," 
Which  simply  demonstrates,  as  all  will  own, 
The  picturesque  from  modern  life  has  flown. 
Our  predatory  classes,  unlike  theirs, 
Are  ugly  as  a  lot  of  unlicked  bears ; 
And  all  the  jargon  of  our  money  mart 
Depraves  the  ear  and  desolates  the  heart. 

This  commentary,  doubtless,  you  will  think 
Is  out  of  place  and  but  a  waste  of  ink. 
Not  so ;  for,  if  from  history  we  take 
No  thought  or  lesson  for  our  own  consumption, 
We  might  as  well  improving  hope  forsake 
And  quit  the  game  for  lack  of  equine  gumption. 
25 


But  to  our  talc.     Othello  and  his  spouse, 
With  Cassio  and  their  numerous  retainers, 
Leaving  the  terrace,  went  into  the  house, 
Where  they  were  met  by  Cyprian  entertainers, 
Who  wined  and   dined   them    with  a   welcome 

gracious, 

In  marble  halls  and  dainty  gardens  spacious, 
While  on  the  esplanade  lago  lingers 
With  Rod,  whose  waning  cash  he  freely  ringers. 

The  evident  devotion  that  existed 
Between  Othello  and  his  fairer  half 
Was  wormwood  to  Roderigo,  who  insisted 
The  time  had  come  to  write  his  epitaph ; 
And  all  his  thoughts  despondent,  suicidal, 
Made  his  pursuit  of  Mrs.  Moor  seem  idle, 
lago,  on  the  contrary,  maintained 
That  Desdemona  had  a  roving  eye 
Which  now  on  Cassio  was  softly  aimed ; 
It  was  an  easy  thing  to  prophesy 
That  all  her  admiration  for  Othello 
Would  soon  be  vested  in  some  other  fellow. 
Venetian  glass  was  beautiful,  but  frail : 
Venetian  ladies  also  were  the  same ; 
Their  infidelity,  an  oft-told  tale, 
Would  find  example  in  this  very  dame. 
The  more  Roderigo  praised  her  noble  parts 
The  more  lago  dabbled  in  detraction, 
26 


And  so  effective  were  his  slimy  arts 

That  poor  Roderigo  was  inspired  to  action, 

Supposing  that  lago's  horrid  scheming 

Was  altogether  in  his  interest  leaning  ; 

As  partial  recompense  for  many  marks 

Borrowed  and  gone  —  fled  like  a  flock  of  larks  ; 

For,  even  in  that  day,  there's  no  denying 

That  money  was  essential  to  high  flying. 

lago  then  his  wretched  plot  outlined, 

And  made  it  plain  to  young  Roderigo's  mind 

That  while  on  guard  that  night  he  must  devise 

Some  pretext  for  a  wordy  altercation 

With  Cassio,  who  was  never  over  wise 

When  stirred  by  wine  or  insubordination. 

This  being  done,  lago  said  that  he 

Would  be  on  hand  the  whole  affair  to  see 

And  push  along  the  general  confusion 

Toward  a  very  serious  conclusion, 

Through  which  friend  Cassio  should  fall  from  grace 

And  he  become  successor  to  his  place, 

Which,  being  once  accomplished,  he  could  press 

Roderigo's  aims  to  an  assured  success, 

As  well  as  take  one  rival  from  the  running  — 

Which  he  considered  tolerably  cunning. 

To  all  of  this  lago's  tool  agreeing, 

They  said  adieu  and  parted  for  time  being 

To  meet  before  the  citadel  at  night 

To  breed  revolt  and  discord  to  incite. 


Again  alone,  lago's  introspection 
Found  outlet  in  the  following  reflection  : 
"  My  mind  persuades  me  that  indeed  I  am 
A  favorite  offspring  of  the  Devil's  dam  : 
All  common  rogues  have  casual  slants  of  shame, 
Remorse,  regret,  repentance ;  but  my  name 
Shall  never  to  such  weakness  be  allied. 
Let  feeble  scamps  their  consciences  divide ; 
My  soul's  a  unit  bent  on  mischief  still, 
And  most  triumphant  in  accomplished  ill. 
This  Moor  is  ever  constant,  noble,  kind  ; 
These  virtues  are  abhorrent  to  my  mind; 
Besides,  'twas  whispered  once  within  my  ken 
That  ere  I  wed  Emelia  she  was  seen 
With  him  alone  at  night,  long  after  ten, 
At  Lido,  walking  slowly  on  the  green 
Along  the  margin  of  the  Adriatic 
With  crooked  steps  suspiciously  erratic. 
Of  course  I  don't  believe  this  idle  tale, 
But  to  pretend  belief  will  much  avail. 
Then  Cassio :  he's  a  bird  of  gorgeous  feather, 
And  they  seem  tolerably  free  together. 
This  day  before  my  very  face  he  kissed  her, 
And  thought  excuse  to  make  by  saying  "sister." 
It  wrung  my  gall  to  watch  Emelia  grinning. 
I'll  slay  them  both  before  they  get  to  sinning. 
But  night  comes  on  apace.     To-morrow's  sun 
Shall  see  the  work  of  Satan  well  begun." 
28 


Thus  musing,  to  the  galley  he  descended, 
And  for  the  time  his  monologue  was  ended. 
The  watch  was  set.     Beside  the  castle  gate 
The  Moor  and  his  Lieutenant,  chatting  late, 
Othello  said,  "  Now,  Cassio,  my  boy, 
We've  had  a  splendid  time,  a  day  of  joy  ; 
Still,  ever  let  that  angel  moderation 
Stand  watch  with  us  and  guard  our  reputation. 
One  cup  of  wine  too  much  has  often  slain 
More  than  a  siege,  and  dyed  with  lasting  stain 
The  shield  of  some  commander  whose  control 
Of  self  and  soldiers  vanished  in  the  bowl. 
I  will  retire.     Good-night.      May  peace  attend 
Your  vigils  till  the  morning  sun  ascend." 
With  this  Othello  promptly  disappears, 
lago  enters,  having  watched  his  chance, 
And  like  a  devil  fish  for  Cassio  steers. 
With  amiable  mien  and  friendly  glance 
He  thus  accosts  him,  with  a  jovial  air: 
"  Well  met,  Lieutenant.      By  the  gods,  I  swear 
Thou  hast  no  ranking  fellow  in  my  heart, 
And  others  hold  thee  high.     Just  here  apart 
Await  two  Cyprian  gentlemen  who  beg 
The  favor  of  your  presence.     A  new  keg 
Is  being  broached,  a  very  precious  booze, 
Whose  virgin  taste  they  say  you  shall  not  lose." 
"Tut,  tut,  lago,  go —  I  pray  you,  go 
And  make  excuses  ;  for,  as  you  well  know, 
29 


My  brains  are  plastic,  and  I  cannot  drink 
As  others  do,  and  this  is  why  I  shrink 
From  your  polite  coercion,  and  beside, 
I  think  that  I've  already  had  enough. 
Let  me  in  confidence  to  you  confide 
I  know  the  meaning  well  of  ^quantum  suf' 
Of  all  my  drinks  1  keep  a  memorandum, 
Because  it  is  not  wise  to  drink  at  random  ; 
And  by  the  record  here,  which  I'm  perusing, 
It  seems  to-day  that  I  have  done  some  boozing. 
Let's  see  :    Five  high  balls  and  four  whiskey  sours, 
Two  bottles  of  Chianti  at  my  lunch  — 
These  kept  me  busy  during  morning  hours ; 
This  afternoon  I  had  one  Medford  punch, 
With  six  gin  fizzes,  four  Manhattans  dry, 
And  several  beers  —  but  those  I  don't  put  down. 
This  evening  also  with  the  General,  I 
Absorbed  three  flagons  to  this  blooming  town  ; 
And  so  I  think  —  but  pshaw  !  my  dear  I  ago, 
They  never  used  to  think  in  old  Chicago, 
But  say  that  one  poor  cocktail  less  or  more 
Would  never  wash  a  sinking  bark  ashore. 
Where  are  your  friends  ?    One  goblet  I  will  drain 
With  you  and  them  in  memory  of  the  Maine." 
With  great  alacrity  lago  ran 
And  ushered  in  three  gallants,  and  a  man 
Who  bore  ajar  of  wine,  an  ancient  juice 
With  latent  potency  to  raise  the  deuce. 


And  this  it  did;   for  in  a  little  space 

Poor  Cassio,  half  seas  over,  left  the  place, 

Encountered  Roderigo  on  his  round, 

Who  gave  for  provocation  some  slight  ground, 

Which  Cassio  magnifying,  drew  his  steel 

And  chased  the  fool,  who  promptly  took  to  heel, 

Nor  could  a  pig  pursued  more  loudly  squeal. 

Right  through  the  castle  court  the  hunt  came 

tearing, 

Roderigo  yelling  and  mad  Cassio  swearing. 
The  Cyprian  gallants  there  who  heard  the  din 
Were  shocked  to  see  this  breach  of  discipline  ; 
Montano  interposed  to  save  the  flying, 
And  for  this  act  came  very  near  to  dying, 
For  furious  Cassio,  all  restraint  resenting, 
Attacked  the  gallant,  who,  his  blade  presenting, 
Put  up  a  lively  fight  in  self  defense 
Against  the  soldier  lost  to  common  sense. 
Not  long  the  silly  combat  raged  between  'em 
When  Cassio  pinked  him  in  the  duodenum. 
The  General  with  his  staff  just  then  arrives 
And  bids  them  stop  on  peril  of  their  lives. 
With  voice  of  wrath  Othello  briefly  orders 
An  explanation  of  these  wild  disorders; 
Moreover  he  remarked  the  scene  amazing 
Was  almost  equal  to  a  college  hazing. 
A  sneer  so  bitter  from  a  man  so  great 
Caused  every  one  with  fear  to  hesitate. 
31 


Cassio  declined  to  speak ;  Montano  said 

In  rather  feeble  accents  while  he  bled, 

That  only  to  protect  his  life  he  drew, 

Nor  could  he  now  impart  a  single  clew 

Which  might  account  for  Cassio's  violence 

Or  justify  such  wanton  arrogance. 

I  ago  listened  calmly  and  exulted, 

Well  knowing  he  would  be  the  next  consulted. 

"Honest  lago,"  said  Othello  then, 

"My  high  opinion  of  your  acumen 

Assures  me  that  from  you  I  may  obtain 

The  facts  about  this  lawless  hurricane, 

This  cyclone  of  revolt  which  spreads  dismay 

From  Famagosta  to  the  lower  bay. 

Speak,  sir,  and  let  no  sentimental  ruth 

Affect  your  story  to  conceal  the  truth." 

Thus  urged,  the  Ancient,  with  assumption  meek 

And  spurious  regret,  began  to  speak. 

"My  lord,  I  swear  by  all  the  gods  above 

I'd  rather  die  than  violate  my  love 

For  Cassio,  and  perform  so  sad  a  task. 

Release  me  from  this  duty.     Let  me  ask 

That  some  one  else  less  partial  than  I  am 

Should  tell  the  tale  of  this  unlucky  dram." 

"What!"    cried  the  Moor.     "A  dram,  a  dram, 

you  say  ? 

On  with  the  tale ;  I  brook  no  more  delay  ! 
This,  coming  to  the  W.  C.  T.  U., 
32 


Would  make  a  hot  and  most  repulsive  stew. 

Go  on !"      lago  then  with  resignation 

Again  began  his  artful  recitation. 

He  told  but  how  a  little  time  ago 

These  Cyprian  gentlemen  with  Cassio 

Were  drinking  bumpers  of  Falernian  wine 

In  goodly  amity,  without  a  sign 

Of  pending  quarrel  or  an  armed  dispute. 

And  so  he  left  them;  but  soon  hearing  strife, 

Returned  in  haste  to  find  Montano  mute 

And  stricken  to  the  very  verge  of  life — 

While  Cassio  with  his  bloody  snicker-snee 

Defied  the  world  with  homicidal  glee. 

Othello  heard  and  in  his  eyes  there  danced 

The  ruby  flames  of  rage ;  around  he  glanced 

And  on  the  culprit  let  his  vision  rest; 

The  silence  every  mother's  son  oppressed 

For  some  brief  space,  and  then  he  sternly  spoke 

Those  celebrated  words  which  few  can  hear 

Except  in  jest  or  as  an  idle  joke 

Without  some  craven  evidence  of  fear: 

"  Cassio,  I  love  thee  well,  this  heart  is  thine, 

BUT  NEVER  MORE  BE  OFFICER  OF  MINE!" 

Enough.      The  sentence  passed,  the    men  dis- 
perse. 

Montano  goes  attended  by  a  nurse. 
The  Moor  retires,  but  Cassio  like  a  stone 
Stands  motionless,  distracted,  and  alone. 
33 


No,  not  alone.      His  friend  lago  stays, 

And  cat-like,  gloating,  with  his  victim  plays — 

"  Why,  man,  cheer  up,  the  worst  is  not  to  come; 

'Tis  true  you've  put  the  island  on  the  bum 

And  lost  your  high  command,  but  after  all 

What  was  it  but  a  common  midnight  brawl 

After  a  day  when  half  the  men,  I  think, 

Of  this  fair  isle  were  mostly  on  the  blink  ? 

Let  fools  for  errors  past  supinely  grieve, 

The  wise  are  prompt  their  losses  to  retrieve. 

To-morrow  to  fair  Desdemona  go 

And  beg  her  interest  in  your  restoration. 

The  Moor,  just  married,  will  be  soft  as  dough 

And  must  assent  to  her  solicitation. 

I  heard  her  say  that  you  in  her  regard 

Were  seated  high.      Be  hopeful,  then ;  bombard 

Her  heart  with  your  petition;  constant  sue 

That  she  her  lord  may  reconcile  to  you. 

This  do  without  a  rest  or  intermission, 

And  on  my  sword  you'll  win  yourlost  commission." 

These  words  in  Cassio's  ears  were  welcome  tenants, 

For,  cashiered  and  dejected,  the  Lieutenant's 

Whole  thought  was  self-destruction.    Life  without 

A  soldier's  honor  and  batallion's  pomp 

Was  no  more  value  than  a  brussels  sprout, 

Or  noxious  gnat-fed  adder  in  a  swamp. 

Therefore  some  mouse-like  hopes  began  to  crawl 

About  the  massive  cheese  of  his  despair, 

34 


And,  growing  bolder,  on  the  rind  they  fall 
And  excavate  a  roomly  lodgment,  where 
They  grow  in  fatness  with  amazing  ease. 
The  trick  is  called  "the  disappearing  cheese." 
Thus  heartened,  Cassio  to  the  project  drew, 
Grasping  the  straws  his  friend  lago  threw, 
With  many  thanks  for  counseling  so  sage 
A  plan  to  mitigate  Othello's  rage. 
"And  as  for  wine,"  he  cried  in  tones  convincing, 
"That  is  a  matter  that  will  bear  no  mincing. 
From  this  time  forth  I'll  never  lift  a  flagon, 
But  deck  the  summit  of  the  water  wagon, 
And  may  my  head  be  taken  from  my  trunk 
If  ever  days  to  come  find  Cassio  drunk. 
Good-night,  good  Ancient,  and  for  your  advising 
My  gratitude  is  recompense  devising." 
Solus,  lago  hugged  himself  in  glee 
And  said,  "What  blooming  fools  these  mortals  be: 
My  conduct  has  a  kind  and  friendly  seeming, 
And  yet  with  damned  malevolence  is  teeming. 
When  Cassio  to  the  lady  makes  his  suing, 
I'll  manage  that  the  Moor  shall  happen  by, 
And  shape  the  incident  to  his  undoing 
As  easy  as  a  spider  takes  a  fly. 
The  more  she  pleads  for  Cassio's  retention, 
The  more  he  shall  her  motives  fair  suspect, 
And  if  my  mind  fail  not  of  fine  invention 
I'll  have  the  Moor  and  Cassio  badly  wrecked. 
35 


Emelia  must  her  mistress  also  move 
To  urge  her  lord  with  obstinate  insistance, 
Making  this  plea  a  little  test  to  prove 
His  love,  and  gauge  the  power  of  his  resistance. 
Thus  her  benevolence  all  misconstrued 
Will  lead  the  fool,  Othello,  to  conclude 
That  Desdemona's  heart  has  gone  astray, 
And  fill  his  soul  with  anguish  and  dismay. 
Thus  will  I  mold  events,  beyond  a  question, 
By  the  hypnotic  process  of  suggestion  — 
A  scientific  cult  in  which  I  revel, 
Inspired  and  aided  by  my  friend  the  devil." 
Just  then  Roderigo,  finding  calm  prevail, 
Came  back  and  sang  this  melancholy  wail  — 
"lago,  by  the  gods,  where  am  I  at? 
But  now  before  this  drunken  Cassio  cat 
I  fled  in  panic  like  a  vermined  rat. 
And  as  for  running  with  the  hounds  in  chase, 
My  very  natural  and  proper  place, 
I  seem  to  play  the  fox  in  this  excursion, 
An  object  of  pursuit  and  dogs'  diversion. 
My  money,  too,  is  spent  and  most  of  it 
Has  gone  to  stimulate  your  tardy  wit. 
Experience  such  as  this  goes  far  to  show 
That  your  proceedings  are  a  world  too  slow. 
Back,  then,  to  Venice  I  will  shortly  sail 
And,  like  a  fox,  still  try  to  save  my  tail." 
A  scornful  smile  lago's  lips  confessed 
36 


As  he,  responding,  these  remarks  addressed  — 
"How  poor  are  they  who  by  impatience  rash 
Reduce  a  half-built  edifice  to  smash. 
What  temple  rises  in  an  afternoon? 
What  week  can  show  all  phases  of  the  moon? 
Be  then  content;  your  work  is  doing  well; 
Cassio  has  been  cashiered ;  your  rival  gone, 
The  field  is  open  for  you;  who  can  tell 
What  luck  to-morrow's  sun  may  shine  upon? 
Go  to  your  quarters  and  by  this  be  cheered — 
Cassio,  your  worst  obstruction,  is  cashiered." 
Thus  saying,  off  he  went  upon  his  rounds 
And  left  Roderigo  to  his  fox  and  hounds — 
A  simile,  the  which  he  found  most  pleasing, 
As  evidence  of  his  own  skill  in  teasing. 

The  day  these  curious  events  succeeding 
Found  Cassio  heartily  engaged  in  pleading 
His  cause  with  Desdemona,  who  assured  him 
His  rank  and  honor  should  be  soon  restored. 
She  knew  this  sad  experience  had  cured  him, 
And  felt  the  great  devotion  of  her  lord 
Was  such  that  no  request  of  hers  could  stay 
Or  fail  to  win  his  glad  responsive  yea. 
Cassio  enchanted,  grateful  made  adieu, 
And  sinking  on  one  knee  as  lovers  do, 
Her  hand  he  took,  with  gentle  fervor  kissed, 
And  then  without  delay  himself  dismissed. 

37 


As  fate  would  have  it,  by  lago  steered, 
Exactly  at  this  point  the  Moor  appeared 
Through  portal  at  the  great  hall's  furthest  end, 
And  both  observed  the  elegant  tableau, 
The  gallant  manner,  and  the  courtly  bend 
Which  marked  the  style  of  handsome  Cassio. 
Now  in  these  modern  days  of  virtuous  habits 
Tis  not  good  form  among  our  common  rabbits 
To  kneel  and  kiss  the  large  industrious  paws 
Of  ladies  who  are  wedded  to  our  friends. 
In  fact,  to  be  so  caught  might  prove  a  cause 
For  courts  and  lawyers  and  fat  dividends; 
For  lovely  legal  gentleman  who  thrive 
On  dirt  and  discord  and  domestic  broils; 
Destructive  insects  in  the  family  hive 
Who  rob  the  honey  to  reward  their  toils; 

But  in  the  sixteenth  cycle  'twas  no  sin 
To  kiss  a  hand  or  chuck  a  pretty  chin, 
A  common  usage  by  most  husbands  noted 
Without  offence,  and  very  often  quoted 
As  evidence  to  show  what  judgment  rare 
Had  led  them  to  select  a  wife  so  fair. 
Othello,  therefore,  never  would  have  thought 
Of  finding  fault  unless  he  had  been  taught, 
And  fate  malignant  had  a  tutor  wise 
In  his  good  Ancient,  who  impulsive  cries, 
"I  like  not  that."      Four  baby  words,  yet  still 
38 


Full  steeped  with  poison  to  engender  ill. 

"I  like  not  that"  may  be  so  said  and  looked 

As  to  convey  significance  immense, 

And  so  it  was.     lago  deftly  hooked 

The  Moor  confiding,  and  his  common  sense 

Became  a  worthless  and  perverted  tool 

Fit  only  for  the  uses  of  a  fool. 

Of  course  Othello  asked  him  what  he  meant, 

And  this  more  rapid  made  his  own  descent. 

lago  in  reply  began  to  prate 

About  his  honesty,  and  hesitate 

To  make  an  answer  frankly  as  demanded, 

As  though  in  mortal  terror  to  be  candid, 

Lest  something  he  was  bound  to  keep  concealed 

Should  come  to  light  and  be  at  length  revealed. 

His  master  all  these  various  antics  viewed 

With  growing  interest  and  solicitude, 

And  roundly  told  his  Ancient  to  explain 

What  fearsome  thought  was  sticking  in  his  brain. 

He  had  observed  his  manner  most  minutely. 

Nothing  escaped  his  eye,  which  saw  acutely 

Those  signs  which  any  rascal  might  enact, 

But  which  when  coming  from  a  friend  well  tried, 

An  honest  man,  were  certain  to  attract 

A  swarm  of  thoughts  that  would  not  be  denied. 

'Twas  then  lago  felt  his  gudgeon  nibble, 

And  with  the  line  of  truth  began  to  quibble. 

Mysterious  importance,  air  of  gloom, 

39 


Made  each  word  seem  a  messenger  of  doom. 
"Othello,  well  I  love  thee.      My  dear  soul 
Has  ever  held  thee  on  its  highest  altar, 
And  therefore,  being  honest,  I  enroll 
Myself  thy  friend,  nor  can  I  weakly  falter 
In  doing  thee  a  service,  even  if 
For  being  honest  I  receive  a  biff. 
Is  it  not  true  that  Cassio  was  your  aid 
When  you  were  courting  this  Venetian  maid  ? 
Did  he  not  seemingly  your  cause  espouse 
And  go  between  you  bearing  notes  and  vows? 
Cassio  is  comely ;  his  complexion  fine 
Presents  a  contrast  violent  to  thine  ; 
And  then  he  has  a  fashionable  lisp  ; 
No  enemy  could  say  his  hair  was  crisp  ; 
His  manner,  courtly  and  ingratiating, 
Sets  all  the  women's  hearts  a-palpitating. 
In  fact  his  elegant  exterior 
Compared  with  yours  is  quite  superior. 
But  what  of  that?     Most  gracious  and  refined, 
Your  wife  beholds  your  visage  in  your  mind — 
I  heard  her  say  so — and  no  natural  change, 
I  trust,  will  ever  cause  her  heart  to  range. 
She  will  solicit  that  you  now  revoke 
The  just  decree  that  drunken  Cassio  broke, 
And  by  her  earnestness  in  this  request 
Her  love  for  Cassio  may  be  shrewdly  guessed." 
Othello  heard  this  subtle  poison  drip, 
40 


And  clutched  the  sword  he  lugged  upon  his  hip ; 
His  eyes  began  to  roll  and  show  their  whites 
Like  Pompey  paralyzed  with  ghostly  frights ; 
His  voice   of   rough   command  grew  weak  and 

husky ; 

His  lips  were  dry  and  actually  dusty ; 
Such  strange  disorder  all  his  being  filled 
lago  hoped  that  someone  might  be  killed. 
O  jealousy !  thou  art  indeed  a  curse 
Which  damns  the  good  and  makes  the  wicked 

worse ; 

Disintegrates  the  texture  of  the  soul  ; 
Leads  reason  captive,  blinder  than  a  mole  ; 
And  turns  the  tender  heart,  where  all  was  well, 
Into  the  seething  cauldron  of  a  hell. 

The  Moor,  with  this  disease  inoculated, 
In  storm  of  moods  conflicting  hesitated, 
But,  by  his  Ancient,  being  well  advised, 
Resolved  to  watch  and  wait  and  play  the  sneak, 
And  keep  his  feelings  pretty  well  disguised 
For  some  days  longer  —  better  say  a  week. 
This  being  understood,  they  went  to  meet 
Their  wives,  with  brows  unconscious  and  discreet. 
No  sooner  had  Othello  made  salute 
Than  Desdemona  opened  up  her  suit: 
"My  lord,"  she  cried,  "your  coming  is  most  apt. 
Cassio  has  just  been  here,  in  sorrow  wrapped, 
41 


Imploring  me  to  beg  that  you'll  restore 
Him  to  his  rank  and  try  his  faith  once  more. 
So  terribly  he  feels  at  this  disgrace 
He  does  not  dare  to  look  you  in  the  face. 
And  I  have  pledged  my  word,  most  gracious  lord, 
That  this  petition  shall  have  your  accord, 
Well  knowing  his  devotion  to  yourself, 
His  faithful  services  and  scorn  of  pelf." 
Othello  heard,  and  in  a  voice  of  pain 
Began  with  great  reluctance  to  explain 
That  he  would  doubtless  the  petition  grant, 
But  not  just  then;  'twas  true  he  might  recant 
Some  other  time  ;  now,  being  indisposed 
To  act,  he  begged  the  matter  might  be  closed. 
And  having  thus  expressed  himself  so  meanly, 
He  and  lago  went  away  serenely. 
Serenely  but  in  seeming,  for  the  Moor 
Perceived  the  verity  of  this  amour, 
And,  tortured  to  the  soul  with  this  conception, 
Cursed  like  a  Turk  the  obvious  deception 
With  which  his  wife  the  wanton  Cassio  backed, 
Until  his  heart  came  near  to  being  cracked. 
The  dew  of  anguish  on  his  forehead  broke, 
Which  seen,  lago  relished  as  a  joke 
And  with  obsequious  smugness  wisely  spoke, 
"My  lord,  of  jealousy  beware,  beware; 
For,  to  the  jealous,  trifles  light  as  air 
Seem  confirmation  strong  as  chains  of  steel ; 
42 


Logic  and  reason  lose  their  saving  power 
When  frantic  passion  makes  the  senses  reel, 
And  Satan  laughs  triumphant  in  that  hour. 
You  have  no  single  proof  on  which  to  act  — 
A  mere  surmise,  unbolstered  by  a  fact. 
But,  as  I  love  you,  mine  shall  be  the  task 
To  furnish  all  the  evidence  you  ask." 
"  By  all  the  gods,  you  shall !"  Othello  yells, 
"  Or  else  make  ready  for  the  deepest  hells. 
Fail  not,  or  on  my  sabre  I'll  expose 
Your  corse  a  banquet  for  the  island  crows!" 
"Alas!"  the  villain  sighs,  "and  this,  my  lord, 
For  being  honest  is  my  strange  reward. 
Farewell,  sweet  rectitude,  and  you,  fair  truth, 
Henceforth  shall  be  but  memories  of  youth. 
Fidelity,  adieu;  thy  honied  breath 
Taste  not,  lago,  for  it  smells  of  death." 
At  this  reproach  Othello  backed  his  oars. 
His  words  retracting,  sadly  he  implores 
lago  to  forgive  an  outburst  weird, 
And  still  assist  him  till  the  sky  is  cleared ; 
On  which  the  Ancient  kindly  gave  his  hand, 
Spoke  absolution,  swore  that  he  would  stand 
Beside  his  master  till  the  wrong  he  bore 
Should  be  avenged  with  retribution  sore. 
And  so,  in  amity  and  peace  arrayed, 
They  go  to  guard-mount  or  the  dress  parade, 
lago  still  his  blighting  venom  squirting 

43 


Finds  the  atrocious  sport  indeed  diverting. 

Meantime  fond  Desdemona,  left  in  grief, 

Took  counsel  with  Emelia  for  relief. 

The  latter,  being  by  lago  spurred, 

Contended  that  the  Moor  was  quite  absurd, 

But  that  a  pleading  still  more  pertinacious 

In  Cassio's  cause  would  prove  all  efficacious, 

And  begged  her  puzzled  mistress  to  be  firm — 

No  matter  how  the  General  might  squirm  — 

That  his  Lieutenant  now  so  underrated 

Should  in  his  place  and  rank  be  reinstated. 

To  this  advice  Othello's  wife  consenting, 

Resolved  to  make  a  strenuous  assault, 

But  little  dreaming  that  the  Moor,  dissenting, 

Would  turn  her  kindness  to  a  deadly  fault ; 

So  from  her  eyes  the  dewy  drops  she  wiped 

With  handkerchief  her  lord  in  Venice  gave  her, 

A  handkerchief  Emelia  swiftly  swiped 

When  dropped  by  accident;  and  not  to  save  her 

Could  Desdemona  ever  find  that  bit 

Of  lace,  nor  find  the  slightest  trace  of  it. 

At  which  we  need  not  wonder  much,  because 

From  innocent  Emelia's  nimble  claws 

It  was  to  those  of  good  lago  passed, 

And  then  by  him  was  most  adroitly  cast 

In  Cassio's  wardrobe,  where,  when  later  found, 

It  caused  a  fine  dramatic  situation, 

A  tangle  dense,  which  might  indeed  confound 

44 


A  simple  Moor,  whose  shreds  of  education, 
Picked  from  the  ash  cans  of  the  empires  old, 
Were  mostly  bits  of  tin,  but  sometimes  gold ; 
Few  scraps  of  sterling  worth,  but  more  of  Brum- 
magem, 
Got  here  and  there  wherever  he  could  rummage'em. 

To  bring  about  a  climax  to  his  taste 
lago  found  he  had  no  time  to  waste. 
Roderigo,  now  bamboozled  to  the  limit, 
With  restive  ire  declared  the  deuce  was  in  it 
If  he  would  tolerate  another  day 
Procrastination,  juggling  and  delay. 
He  seized  upon  the  Ancient,  buttonholed  him, 
And  this  in  brief  is  really  what  he  told  him : 
"lago,  I  demand  a  strict  accounting 
For  monies  lent  you,  easily  amounting 
To  seventeen  hundred  ducats ;  also  rings, 
Bracelets,  and  girdles,  brooches,  other  things 
Which  you  to  Desdemona  have  conveyed, 
Enough  to  buy  compliance  from  a  maid 
Of  vestal  orders,  in  a  convent  coop, 
Who  never  shot  the  chutes  nor  looped  the  loop. 
For  these  rich  signs  of  my  infatuation 
You  have  brought  messages  of  consolation 
And  promises  of  secret  meetings  which 
Could  only  more  and  more  my  heart  bewitch ; 
And  yet  this  morning,  when  most  circumspect 
45 


I  made  salute,  she  gave  the  cut  direct ; 
Which  lends  me  reason  to  believe  that  you, 
A  double-dealing  scamp  of  darkest  hue, 
Are  using  me  to  pluck  as  you  may  deem 
Best  to  promote  your  own  infernal  scheme. 
Return  my  jewels,  give  my  money  back, 
And  I  for  Venice  will  at  once  make  sail. 
Refuse — and,  by  the  lunar  zodiac, 
I  will  to  Desdemona  with  my  tale 
And  either  get  my  gems  or  find  out  why 
The  lady  is  so  difficult  and  shy." 
Like  to  the  cloud  which  holds  a  deadly  stroke 
To  kill  a  man  or  pulverize  an  oak 
Was  fell  lago's  brow  when  Roderigo 
Began  his  rather  aggravating  dun  ; 
But  when  he  closed,  like  innocent  bambino, 
His  face  was  frank  and  cheerful  as  a  bun, 
And  he  explained — the  insults  all  ignored — 
How  this  plain  talk  had  in  his  estimation 
Roderigo  much  exalted,  and  deplored 
Fair  Desdemona's  foolish  hesitation; 
Now  that,  instead  of  being  but  a  muff, 
He  knew  Roderigo  for  the  "real  stuff," 
He  would  admit  that  perhaps  he  had  been  slow, 
To  be  more  sure,  but  that  'twas  Cassio 
Who  really  blocked  the  way,  which  clearly  proved 
That  Cassio  must  be  at  once  removed : 
An  easy  task ;  for  when  to-morrow  night 
46 


The  gay  Lieutenant,  after  supping  late 

With  Cyprian  lady,  made  adieus  polite, 

Let  bold  Roderigo  meet  him  near  the  gate, 

And  winning  safety  from  the  midnight  dark, 

With  one  swift  thrust  put  out  his  vital  spark. 

He  would  himself  be  near  to  aid  the  fray 

And  see  that  Cassio  never  got  away. 

To  this  arrangement,  certainly  nefarious, 

Roderigo  offered  contra  reasons  various, 

But  in  the  end,  by  flattery  overruled, 

Consented,  and  again  was  badly  fooled. 

The  Ancient  cut  him  off  with  hasty  coaching 

Because  he  saw  the  jealous  Moor  approaching, 

And  gloating  like  a  fiend  by  crime  elated, 

Beheld  the  wreck  his  cunning  had  created, 

While  to  himself  he  softly  meditated : 

"Ah,  there  you  are,  my  excellent  good  master. 

A  sleepy  snail  would  surely  travel  faster. 

Thy  step  elastic  totters  with  the  load 

Of  inextinguishable  pain.     The  toad 

That  fattens  on  the  vapors  of  a  sewer 

Is  not  more  noxious  than  the  thoughts  that  swim 

Through  every  convoluted  aperture 

Of  thy  tormented  brain  from  rim  to  rim. 

Not  mandragora  nor  the  poppy's  juice 

Shall  ever  soothe  those  eyes,  with  yellow  shot; 

No  oriental  balms  from  far  conduce 

To  that  sweet  sleep  which  innocence  begot 

47 


But  yesterday  ;  no  more  the  Persian  rose 
Shall  ever  minister  to  thy  repose." 
Then  to  the  Moor  with  fine  solicitude 
He  turned  and  begged  in  sympathetic  tone 
A  few  brief  words.      He  hated  to  intrude, 
Or  see  his  chief  dejected  and  alone, 
But  he  had  something  pertinent  to  say, 
Which  honestly  could  brook  no  long  delay. 
"Honest  lago,"  groaned  the  Moor,  "I  must 
In  thy  good  offices  implicit  trust 
To  quell  or  verify  the  doubts  which  rend 
My  soul  to  tatters.     Tell  me,  then,  my  friend, 
What  I  should  do,  in  this  vile  slough  of  shame, 
To  find  one  solid  spot  whereon  to  stand — 
One  little  rock  of  fact  on  which  to  frame 
The  vengeance  that  invites  my  ready  hand? 
Vengeance,  lago,  and  I  tell  thee  more, 
I'd  rather  keep  a  corner  grocery  store 
And  send  my  wife  about  to  peddle  greens, 
Sell  codfish  rank,  and  measure  lima  beans, 
Than  bear  upon  my  brow  for  all  to  see 
Those  ornaments  invisible  to  me." 
"Tut,  tut,"  lago  cried;  "my  lord,  this  storm 
Of  feeling  seems  to  me  in  wretched  form. 
From  straws  and  feathers  tempests  do  not  grow ; 
The  wise  with  some  discretion  mark  their  woe; 
The  vague  suspicions  that  now  plague  your  wit 
I  will  confirm  like  proofs  of  holy  writ ; 
48 


From  doubt  to  certainty  your  mind  shall  pass 

And  see  the  truth  as  in  a  looking  glass. 

Last  night  with  Cassio  in  his  room  I  slept, 

And  when  the  little  hours  began  to  creep 

I  startled  woke  in  fright,  but  silence  kept, 

Amazed  at  Cassio  talking  in  his  sleep. 

'Twould  take  three  weeks  to  tell  in  decent  phrase 

How  warm  his  words  in  Desdemona's  praise, 

Extolling  charms  which  even  I  to  name 

Would  be  committed  to  a  sin  profane. 

Then  from  his  breast  he  took  a  'kerchief  rare, 

A  fabric  delicate  as  misty  air, 

On  which  I  saw  by  slant  of  moonlight  pale 

A  sacred  ibis  scratching  of  his  tail, 

All  hand-embroidered  in  a  faint  design, 

Of  pallid  amber,  like  a  Spanish  wine. 

This  handkerchief  he  kissed  and  oft  caressed; 

Talked  to  it,  too,  and  coddled  to  his  breast 

As  gage  d'amour^  a  souvenir  of  bliss 

By  Desdemona  given  with  a  kiss." 

The  stricken  Moor  this  deadly  poison  drank, 

And  to  the  pits  of  flame  his  spirits  sank ; 

In  broken  voice  he  said  that  well  he  knew 

That  'kerchief  delicate  ;  there  were  not  two 

Such  webs  of  lace  in  all  the  Orient; 

It  was  the  gift  that  he  his  wife  had  sent 

That  time  when  vows  of  love  to  him  addressed 

Had  made  this  dreary  orb  an  Eden  blessed. 

49 


Now  hell  itself  the  word  of  doom  had  written  : 
The  traitors  should  with  sudden  death  be  smitten, 
And  off  he  went,  impatient  of  delay, 
To  find  what  Desdemona  had  to  say. 
That  gentle  lady,  guiltless,  unafraid, 
Observed  from  far  her  husband  drawing  nigh, 
But  noted  not  his  garments  disarrayed, 
Nor  the  portentous  rolling  of  his  eye. 
She  only  thought  she  saw  a  fit  occasion 
To  use  a  stronger  dose  of  moral  suasion 
In  aid  of  Cassio,  whose  frank  distress 
Seemed  a  reflection  on  her  poor  success. 
Therefore,  no  sooner  had  the  Moor  arrived 
Than  she  began  with  dignified  coercion 
To  plead  her  client's  cause,  and  so  contrived 
To  clench  the  Moor's  suspicion  and  aversion. 
He  raved  in  words  almost  beyond  belief, 
And  bade  her  bring  at  once  a  handkerchief, 
A  certain  very  precious  bit  of  lacery 
On  which  could  faintly  be  discerned  the  tracery 
Of  sacre-d  ibis  scratching  of  his  tail, 
The  very  one  he  gave  her  on  that  night 
They  heard  the  chanting  of  the  nightingale 
Singing  an  obligate  to  their  plight. 
At  this  demand  the  lady  looked  confused, 
Declared  she  had  it  somewhere,  but  refused 
To  bring  it  forth  until  her  lord  relented, 
And  to  be  friends  with  Cassio  consented. 
5° 


In  tragic  tones  the  Moor  then  told  his  wife 
That  on  this  'kerchief  hung  her  very  life ; 
'Twas  wrought  with  magic  at  the  midnight  hour, 
That  time  when  great  Orion  felt  the  power 
Of  Venus  radiant  shining  in  the  zenith, 
And  over  her  with  fond  attraction  leaneth — 
An  occultation  twenty  lives  of  men, 
Though  stellar  gazers,  ne'er  might  see  again. 
The  worms  that  spun  its  'tenuated  threads 
Were  nurtured  on  the  dryad-haunted  trees 
In  temple  garden,  where  the  lily  beds 
Tempted  from  Sicily  the  Hybla  bees; 
Its  colors  were  of  strange  and  mystic  dyes 
Distilled  at  night  from  mummied  mermaids'  eyes; 
The  web  was  deftly  spun  by  sybil  armed 
With  spells  and  necromantic  incantations 
Wherewith  the  adverse  furies  might  be  charmed 
To  fill  its  owner's  life  with  mitigations. 
This  sacred  heirloom  was  his  mother's  gift, 
With  admonitions  serious  conveyed 
To  carefully  preserve  with  cautious  thrift, 
And  part  with  only  to  that  happy  maid 
Who  should  confess  her  love  for  him  conclusively, 
And  pledge  fidelity  to  him  exclusively. 
This  talisman  would  keep  her  from  duplicity 
And  fill  her  welcome  days  with  all  felicity, 
Make  strong  her  husband's  love  as  gravitation, 
Her  home  a  dream,  a  heavenly  habitation. 


But  let  her  lose  or  give  this  amulet, 
And  desperate  disaster  and  regret 
Should,  with  a  red  and  overwhelming  flood, 
Sweep  her  and  all  her  house  away  in  blood. 
"  This  was  the  occult  web  I  gave  to  you, 
And  see  how  speedily  the  spell  works  true: 
A  vessel  just  now  landed  on  the  shore 
Brings  tidings  that  your  father  is  no  more." 

Did  Desdemona  shriek,  or  faint,  or  cry? 

Oh,    no!     She     looked     her    husband    in     the 

eye; 

She  gazed  into  those  orbs  of  yellow  fire 
And  calmly  said,  "  Othello,  you're  a  liar. 
A  letter  from  my  father,  just  received, 
Declares  him  well  but  very  much  bereaved. 
He  feels  the  loss  my  absence  long  imposes, 
And  graciously  a  handsome  check  encloses. 
As  for  your  silly  tale  of  witch-made  rag 
In  starlight  woven  by  some  hairless  hag, 
It  makes  me  weary.     I  would  have  you  know 
That  on  the  breast  you  say  is  white  as  snow 
I  wear  a  sacred  counterguard  from  death 
Which  makes  the    fates    and    furies    hold    their 

breath ; 

A  fiend-defying  fetish  brought  from  Rome — 
The  left  big  toe  nail  of  good  Saint  Jerome, 
Which  bears  the  seal  of  the  pontificate 
52 


For  authenticity,  with  day  and  date. 

The  innocent  wild  ass  that  knows  no  reins, 

The  ass  that  feeds  on  Asiatic  plains, 

Is  not  bereft  so  thoroughly  of  brains 

As  you,  with  effort  to  inspire  belief 

In  baby  fiction  of  your  handkerchief." 

Indignantly  she  turned  and  walked  away, 

Leaving  the  Moor  without  a  word  to  say. 

Alone,  he  plucked  his  dagger  from  the  sheath 

And  with  its  point  began  to  pick  his  teeth, 

Dumbfounded,  almost  speechless  at  the  brass 

With  which  his  wife  had  marked  him  for  an  ass. 

Our  modern  husbands  never  feel  surprise 

At  any  startling  phrase  their  wives  devise ; 

In  fact  the  ladies  often  search  the  zoo 

For  apt  comparisons  and  insults  new 

With  which  to  decorate  their  vassals  true; 

In  throngs  they  crowd  unpleasant  monkey  houses 

To  find  those  terms  best  fitted  for  their  spouses. 

The  Moor,  however,  with  a  mind  envermined, 
Instead  of  pausing,  grew  still  more  determined 
To  see  in  all  that  Desdemona  said 
An  added  reason  for  his  vengeance  dread; 
So  next  day  with  lago  he  consulted, 
Described  his  interview  and  what  resulted, 
And  also  mentioned  how  he  was  insulted. 
Thereat  his  Ancient,  though  for  carnage  thirsting, 
53 


Could  very  hardly  keep  himself  from  bursting. 
But  said,  of  course  such  conduct  in  effect 
Was  consonant  with  every  vile  defect  — 
A  theory  quite  in  keeping  with  his  master's, 
And  sure  to  foster  terrible  disasters. 
Mad  with  the  agony  which  rent  his  mind, 
The  Moor,  lago  ordered  and  assigned 
To  do  away  with  Cassio  that  night, 
While  he  himself  to  everlasting  flight 
Would  put  the  soul  of  Desdemona,  fair 
But  false  and  fickle  as  the  Cyprian  air. 
The  details  all  arranged,  the  knave  and  fool 
Went  off  to  play  a  game  of  bottle  pool, 
And  on  the  way,  while  stopping  at  the  bank, 
Othello  kindly  raised  his  Ancient's  rank 
To  be  lieutenant,  an  immense  distinction, 
As  just  reward  for  Cassio's  extinction. 

The  slow  descending  sun,  a  ruby  sphere, 
Above  the  brow  of  Mount  Olympus  hung, 
And  gazing  through  the  tinted  atmosphere 
Enamored  saw  that  isle,  whose  beauty  sung 
By  bards  immortal  when  the  world  was  young, 
Still  held  its  sway,  intoxicating  sweet 
As  when  of  gods  the  immemorial  seat. 
Othello,  leaning  on  the  parapet 
Which  swung  its  arms  around  the  castle  yard, 
Oblivious  to  the  hour,  by  fiends  beset, 

54 


Inhaled  the  scented  air  with  disregard, 
Beheld  the  phantom  moon  from  Syria  rise, 
Unnoted  viewed  the  purple  of  the  skies; 
For  nature  may  not  show  her  charms  to  him 
Whose  heart  is  bent  upon  a  deed  of  sin. 
Long  meditated  he,  when  from  below 
He  heard  a  galley  land,  and  trumpets  blow, 
And  feet  ascending  on  the  causeway  stair, 
And  then  detected  voices  that  he  knew, 
Among  them  Ludovico's,  he  could  swear. 
Yes,  Ludovico  with  his  retinue 
Had  just  arrived,  from  regal  Venice  sent 
With  some  instructions  from  the  government; 
He  had  been  met  by  Desdemona  surely, 
And  with  his  niece  was  talking  now  securely. 
He  said  in  brief  the  Council  had  recalled 
Her  husband,  ordering  Cassio  installed 
As  Governor  of  Cyprus  in  his  stead — 
A  move  which  seemed  to  please  the  lady  greatly. 
She  spoke  of  how  her  lord  and  Cassio  lately 
Had  fallen  out,  and  hoped  the  new  arrangement 
Would  end  their  most  deplorable  estrangement. 
All  this  Othello  heard  in  anguish  sweating. 
It  seemed  to  him  as  though  the  fates,  forgetting 
Their  usual  kindly  care,  had  thrown  him  down, 
To  be  the  scoff  and  jeer  of  every  clown. 
Though  writhing  cruelly  in  his  distress, 
He  pulled  himself  together  none  the  less, 
55 


And  went  to  meet  the  messenger  with  hearty 
Good  welcome  for  himself  and  all  his  party, 
Accepted  the  dispatches,  which  he  read, 
Then  rudely  told  his  wife  to  go  to  bed, 
And  managed,  so  at  least  my  story  goes, 
To  grind  his  iron  heel  upon  her  toes. 
This  surreptitious  act  a  blunder  seemed, 
An  awkward  accident ;  but  loudly  screamed 
The  lady,  and  her  uncle,  not  so  slow, 
Said,"  Keep  your  heels, my  General,  for  the  foe" — 
An  ambiguity  which  looked  like  wit 
To  every  fellow  but  the  fellow  hit. 
With  secret  rage  Othello  pallid  grew 
As  any  raven's  wing  that  ever  flew, 
But  well  dissembling,  kindly  took  his  guest 
To  dine  in  state  upon  the  Cyprian  best 
And  drink  the  wine  which  knights  of  Malta  grew, 
Asserting  better  this  world  never  knew. 
'Twas  late  when,  hospitable  duties  ended, 
The  Moor  retired,  and  to  his  chamber  wended 
In  deep  considerate  effort  to  decide 
By  what  particular  means  to  kill  his  bride ; 
Selecting  finally  a  method  glorious, 
Eliminating  pain,  yet  not  uproarious. 
He  paused  outside  the  room,  within  the  hall, 
And  leaning  desolate  against  the  wall 
To  sad  reflections  rendered  up  his  soul, 
Bidding  adieu  to  all  that  life  held  dear — 
56 


The  splendid  pomp  of  war,  the  cannon's  roll, 
The  neighing  steed,  the  battle's  frantic  cheer, 
And  that  great  pastime  where  ambition  stood 
Almost  a  virtue,  making  carnage  good. 
In  brief,  he  cried,  "  Creation's  but  a  blot ; 
Othello's  occupation's  gone  to  pot !" 
The  castle  bell  struck  twelve  with  vibrant  stroke, 
And  from  his  reverie  the  Moor  awoke 
To  realize  that  Cassio  was  no  more, 
For  this  is  what  lago  doubly  swore, 
And  sure  lago  was  an  honest  man, 
Certain  as  fate  to  execute  his  plan. 
Into  his  room  Othello  slowly  crept, 
Saw  Desdemona,  was  convinced  she  slept. 
One  lovely  foot  from  out  the  cover  peeked 
Half  hidden  by  a  rag  with  phenol  steeped, 
A  sight  which  brought  him  shaking  to  his  knees, 
Filled  with  remorse  and  contrite  agonies. 
The  gas  was  burning  brightly,  and  with  awe 
A  fleeting  smile  upon  her  face  he  saw ; 
And  yet  relentless,  obdurate  he  rose, 
To  bring  the  tragic  story  to  a  close. 
And  this  is  what  he  said ;  but  every  word 
Was  quite  distinctly  by  the  lady  heard, 
Who  thought  it  safer  sleeping  to  pretend 
Than  meet  perchance  a  most  untimely  end  : 
"  Blow  out  the  gas,  and  thus  put  out  the  light ; 
And  if  this  flaming  minister  I  quench, 
57 


I  can  again  with  match  relume  the  night 
And  so  remove  the  nauseating  stench ; 
But  if  this  air  oblivious  stops  thy  life, 
Thou  fairest  pattern  of  abhorrent  guile, 
I  know  no  antidote  with  virtue  rife 
That  can  again  restore  thy  matchless  smile, 
Give  to  the  world  the  radiance  of  those  eyes, 
Or  bid  thy  clay  in  classic  beauty  rise. 
My  heart  is  breaking  with  this  last  farewell, 
Which  yet  must  be,  for  thou  art  false  as  hell." 
Thus  said,  and  making  all  the  casements  tight, 
Othello  paused  and  then  blew  out  the  light; 
Retreated  from  the  room  and  closed  the  door, 
With  unknown  depths  of  anguish  to  explore. 
For  no  long  time  the  Moor  with  feverish  haste 
Strode  up  and  down  the  hall,  and  as  he  paced 
He  heard  the  noise  of  discord  and  strange  cries 
Up  from  the  town  below  alarming  rise, 
And  to  himself  remarked  in  accents  tired 
That  Cassio's  death  had  probably  transpired, 
And  caused  some  little  rioting  which  might 
Place  good  lago  in  a  nasty  plight; 
But,  after  all,  what  were  these  things  to  him 
Whose  soul  was  hanging  on  gehenna's  rim? 
Nor  could  Emelia,  who  rushed  in  just  then, 
Get  more  attention  than  a  clucking  hen 
Until  she  seized  him  boldly  by  the  ear 
And  thus  compelled  the  abstract  Moor  to  hear : 
58 


"  Wake !  wake !"  she  cried.    "  lago  has  been  slain ! 

He  died  in  most  excruciating  pain, 

Bidding  me  run  with  utmost  speed  to  you 

And  say  that  Desdemona  was  as  true 

As  polar  star,  and  that,  as  death  drew  nigh 

With  rapid  feet,  he  could  not,  would  not  die 

Till  he  confessed  that  he  himself  created 

From  nothing  but  his  hate — for  you  he  hated — 

The  wanton  lies  about  your  lady  kind, 

In  which  you  soaked  your  damned  perverted 

mind." 

Like  to  a  stately  tower  by  earthquake  shocked, 
So  for  a  moment  poor  Othello  rocked, 
And  then  with  voice  of  thunder  roared,  "You  lie! 
Most  wretched  harlot,  look  me  in  the  eye 
And  tell  me,  thou  deceiving,  wanton  slave, 
Where  is  the  'kerchief  Desdemona  gave 
To  Cassio  as  a  priceless  gage  d' amour?" 
With  scorn  Emelia  looked  upon  the  Moor, 
And  said  in  tones  of  infinite  contempt, 
"  You  monstrous  fool,  from  every  sense  exempt, 
'Twas  I  who  stole  the  rag  of  which  you  prate, 
Urged  to  the  deed  by  my  unhappy  mate 
Now  deader  than  a  canvas-covered  ham, 
With  Cassio's  sword-cut  through  his  diaphragm. 
Where  is  my  mistress,  brute ?     My  mind  misgives : 
Tell  me  if  yet  my  gracious  lady  lives." 
A  look  of  strange  confusion  and  affright 

59 


On  dark  Othello's  face  was  seen  to  light, 

And  shaking  as  with  cold  he  hoarsely  said, 

"  Come,  come  with  me.     I  think  that  she  is  dead." 

Rushing  like  mad  along  the  corridor, 

With  winged  speed  they  reached  the  chamber  door, 

And,  bursting  in,  beheld  at  one  swift  gaze 

A  sight  alike  to  comfort  and  amaze, 

Remembered  all  Othello's  earthly  days. 

The  room  was  brilliant;  every  light  aglow 

Gave  to  the  scene  a  rather  festive  air, 

While  near  the  center  on  a  sofa  low 

Sat  Desdemona,  playing  solitaire; 

About  her  shoulders,  whiter  than  the  snow, 

Fell  masses  of  her  copper-colored  hair, 

And  right  before  her  stood  her  wounded  toe 

Cushioned  and  propped  upon  a  rocking  chair ; 

Her  right  hand  played  a  card  as  black  as  jet 

And  in  her  left  she  held  a  cigarette. 

With  mild  surprise  she  looked,  then  said,  "My 

dear, 

I'm  very  glad  you  came ;  'twas  lonely  here. 
Emelia,  too.     Why,  really,  what's  the  matter? 
I  fancied  from  the  town  I  heard  some  clatter." 
These  words  were  followed  by  an  awful  crash, 
For  poor  Othello  had  gone  all  to  smash  — 
Fainted  away,  this  man  of  stub  and  twist  — 
This  man,  whose  vigor  nothing  could  resist, 
Swooned  like  a  girl  and  tumbled  on  the  floor, 
60 


As  some  great  tidal  wave  upon  the  shore  — 
An  exhibition  clear  of  what  the  mind 
Can  do  with  matter  when  'tis  so  inclined. 
Long  time  he  lay  unconscious,  but  at  last 
Through  tender  care  the  paroxysm  passed 
And  he  recovered,  but  was  never  more 
The  jealous  dodo  he  had  been  before. 
In  fact  his  wife,  her  beauty's  right  asserting, 
Would  now  and  then  perform  a  little  flirting, 
The  innocence  of  which  so  well  he  knew 
That,  conscience  smitten,  often  he  withdrew 
And  left  the  lady  to  enjoy  the  game 
Of  teaching  fiery  suitors  to  be  tame. 
She  never  breathed,  except  to  her  Creator, 
That  once  he  plotted  to  assassinate  her  — 
An  evidence  of  wisdom  and  restraint 
In  woman  rare,  but  wonderfully  quaint. 
They  went  to  Venice,  and  were  ordered  next 
To  Mauritania,  where  some  question  vexed 
About  the  tariff  worried  and  perplexed 
Venetian  merchants.     There  Othello  found 
Himself  at  home  upon  his  native  ground, 
And  with  the  Moors  patched  up  a  schedule  fine 
On  every  product,  saving  oil  and  wine. 
These  cleverly  arranged  negotiations 
Were  very  much  commended  by  both  nations, 
In  history  called  the  victory  of  negations  ; 
A  treaty  which  it  took  two  years  to  make 

61 


And  only  some  three  careless  months  to  break. 

To  Venice  then.     En  route  their  ship  was  ta'en 

By  Turkish  pirates  and  Othello  slain, 

The  women  carried  off — a  common  rule  — 

To  grace  the  Sultan's  harem  at  Stamboul. 

But  passing  through  that  narrow  strait  or  alley 

Which  from  the  shore  divides  the  Cyprian  isle, 

The  pirate  saw  a  big  Venetian  galley 

Which  swiftly  overhauled  him,  mile  by  mile, 

Until  at  length  the  grappling  irons  were  cast, 

And  then  the  fight  was  furious  and  fast. 

The  Turk  was  vanquished  and  the  captives,  saved, 

With  gratitude  eternal  almost  raved. 

Fair  Desdemona  to  the  Captain  went 

With  tearful  thanks  and,  sweetly  bending  low, 

Said,  "Sir,  you  were  by  Heaven's  direction  sent 

To  save  us  from  unmitigated  woe. 

In  prayer  for  you  shall  all  my  days  be  spent." 

She  paused  and  peeping  through  her  sombre  veil 

To  mark  the  man  who  fought  with  such  avail, 

Amazed  beheld  her  friend  of  long  ago, 

Her  first  admirer,  gallant  Cassio. 

In  Belmont  is  a  castle  richly  set 
Within  a  garden,  where  perennial  trees 
Border  along  a  winding  rivulet 
Which  plays  symphonic  music  with  the  breeze ; 
Here  shady  alleys  reach,  wide  spaces  glow 
62 


With  flowers  that  only  Italy  may  know, 
Whose  perfumes  to  the  sun  like  prayers  arise 
Of  thanks  for  life  and  soft  unclouded  skies. 
Here,  strange  to  say,  there  dwelt  a  happy  pair 
Of  lovers  who  were  actually  married  — 
Cassio  and  Desdemona  debonair — 
For  Cupid's  plans  not  always  are  miscarried. 
Roderigo  and  Emelia  also  wed, 
Trotted  along  the  matrimonial  track, 
Though  Rod  was  shy  at  first,  but  being  led 
Saw  but  one  way  to  get  his  jewels  back. 
Across  the  way  there  lived  in  splendid  state 
A  nabob,  Lord  Bassanio,  who  of  late 
Was  captured  by  a  certain  heiress  great, 
Named  Portia.     There  are  very  few  but  know 
The  case  of  Shylock  and  Antonio, 
And  how  by  being  so  amazing  smart 
She  saved  Antonio  parting  with  his  heart. 
These  were  delightful  neighbors,  just  the  sort 
To  make  the  place  an  elegant  resort 
For  painters,  poets  and  others  of  that  ilk, 
Who  claimed  their  infant  food  was  muses'  milk. 
Sometimes  the  men  did  play  a  little  high, 
And  Gratiano,  that  persistent  joker, 
Would  oft  persuade  himself  a  bluff  to  try 
On  Roderigo,  whom  he  plucked  at  poker. 
But  happiness  prevailed,  and  long  persisted 
Until  the  ladies  all  became  bridge  t'whisted. 
63 


L'lLE  D'AMOUR 

WITHIN  my  life  there  flows  a  placid  stream, 
And  in  that  stream  a  fancied  island  lies 
To  which  I  oft  repair,  when  lower  my  skies, 
To  breathe  Elysian  air  and  brightly  dream. 

And  here  are  gathered  many  things  I  deem 
Most  rare  and  beautiful,  that  I  have  brought 
From  all  the  fairy  kingdoms  of  my  thought 
To  make  this  island  like  an  Eden  seem. 

Encircled  here  with  flowers  an  image  glows, 
Faultless  and  fair,  of  woman's  perfect  mould, 
Which  lifts  my  spirit  when  my  eyes  behold 

And  tints  the  isle  with  colors  of  the  rose ; 
But  only  I  may  know  the  model  sweet 
Which  makes  this  image  seem  so  incomplete. 


A  BUTTERFLY 

BRIGHT  spirit  of  the  air,  whose  loving  friends 
The  rainbow  and  the  flowers  together  vied 
In  rivalry  that  would  not  be  denied 
To  furnish  forth  the  beauty  that  attends 
Thy  summer  glory,  till  the  summer  ends, 
Was  there  no  tiny  voice  that  softly  cried, 
When  as  a  chrysalis  thou  didst  abide, 
"  Sleep  on  and  dream ;  ere  long  thy  fortune 
mends  ?" 

And  may  not  man  in  his  cocoon  of  clay 

Borrow  some  premonitions  of  a  day 

When  like  to  thee  the  pinions  of  his  mind 

Shall  glow  in  astral  colors ;  when  away 
Shall  fall  the  dull  impediments  that  bind, 
And  all  refulgent  flight  him  to  his  kind  ? 


68 


THE  FLOWER  AND  THE  COMET 

IN  some  land  grows  a  flower,  I  know  not  where, 
Which  dwells  apart  far  from  its  tender  mate, 
Blossoms  divinely,  and  then  learns  to  wait 
Until  ./Eolus  sends  a  trusty  air; 
Then  drops  this  plant  its  golden  pollen  fair 
Within  the  zephyrs'  arms,  which  carry  straight 
Their  burden  over  mountains  desolate 
To  that  lone  other  flower  and  leaves  it  there. 

Celestial  stranger,  what  erotic  sun 

Has  shot  thee  from  his  incandescent  breast? 

Upon  what  errand  of  supreme  behest 
Dost  thou  on  thy  tremendous  mission  run  ? 

Methinks  thou  art  upon  thy  course  forth  hurled 

To  find  and  fructify  a  barren  world. 


NEW  PROVIDENCE 

LOVED  by  the  sun  and  flattered  by  the  moon, 
Caressed  by  all  the  fickle  airs  that  blow, 
Yon  island  lies  beyond  the  land  of  snow, 
Calm  in  the  purple  of  its  bright  lagoon ; 
Its  days,  its  years,  one  everlasting  June. 
Voyagers  from  Arragon  and  old  Castile 
Here  gave  repose  to  many  a  storm-tossed  keel, 
And  felt  the  magic  of  thy  changeless  youth; 

Dreaming  perchance  that  they  too  might  divine 
Some  juvenescent  fount,  some  spell  in  truth, 

To  pluck  its  poison  from  the  fang  of  Time. 

So  dreamed  I  once  beneath  thy  palm  and  vine, 
And  in  a  drowsy  vision's  sweet  device 
Fancied  thy  winds  just  strayed  from  Paradise. 


NOVEMBER 

ALONG  thy  dark  forbidding  coast  there  lies, 
Rude  buffeted  by  many  an  icy  gale, 
The  wreck  of  summer's  glorious  argosies, 
The  gay  armada  of  the  leafy  sail 
Which  cleared  so  gallantly  the  port  of  May 
With  flowery  garland,  and  with  song  and  clear 
Sweet  winds  that  lagged  behind  or  led  the  way 
Down  through  the  golden  sea  of  half  the  year. 

Some  gentle  craft  were  stranded  on  the  shoal 
Of  red  October,  some  escaped  to  find 
Upon  thy  frosty  shores  a  bitter  goal — 
A  barren  margin  and  a  cruel  wind ; 
While  all  the  tuneful  sailors  of  the  fleet 
Are  hushed  forever  in  thy  mist  and  sleet. 


CHARLES  LAMB 

IN  plenitude  of  joy,  upon  the  heights 
Which  amorously  overhung  the  tide, 
There  stood  a  lonely  pine  tree  and  defied 
The  blasts  of  autumn  and  the  arctic  nights. 
The  ardent  sun,  father  of  all  delights, 
Shed  benedictions  on  the  happy  tree 
Which  flourished  in  the  love  of  stars  and  sea 
And  lent  his  boughs,  alike  for  birds  and  mites 
Of  summer  life,  to  dwell  in  and  rejoice. 

From  his  perennial  leaves  he  made  a  lyre 
Attuned  to  music  of  the  tempest's  voice, 
Or  zephyr's  witching  cadence  of  desire. 
Mateless  he  sat,  and  on  the  air  distilled 
The  subtle  sweets  with  which  his  heart  was  filled. 


BUDDHA 

THE  little  man-made  gods  which  creeds 
portray 

As  being  rampant  with  a  lust  for  praise, 
Demanding  prostrate  homage  and  amaze 
From  creatures  manufactured  on  a  day 
When  Moses's  Jove  was  modeling  in  clay, 
How  small  and  most  inadequate  they  seem 
When  brought  before  thy  vast  mysterious 
scheme, 

0  teacher  of  an  older,  wiser  way. 

1  turn  from  Heaven  eternal  orthodox, 
With  all  its  sad  monotony  of  bliss, 

As,  storm-beset,  a  vessel  shuns  the  rocks, 

And  find  thy  thought  a  bright  antithesis  — 
Reincarnation  by  supreme  design — 
Nirvana;  ending  in  the  All  Divine. 


73 


SERVICE 

HE  who  goes  forth  to  serve  goes  forth  to  win  ; 
And  he  who  labors  in  the  blast  and  snow 
That  others  may  some  use  and  joyance  know, 
I  honor  more  than  he  who  sits  within 
The  luxury  of  great  command — akin 

To  rulers,  with  the  blatant  pomp  and  show 
Which  folly-fashioned  men  in  haste  bestow 
Alike  on  greatness  or  successful  sin. 

The  world's  rewards  go  not  to  those  brave  men 
Who  delve  the  soil  and  burrow  in  the  mine, 

Heroic  toilers!     Shall  they  always,  then, 
Like  beggars  go,  one  everlasting  line, 

To  pauper  graves  ?     O,  Soul  of  Justice,  when 
Wilt  thou  awake  to  conquer,  smite  and  shine  ? 


74 


BENEATH  THE  SNOW 

BENEATH    the   snow  the  tender  ferns  are 
sleeping, 

Dreaming  perchance  of  happiness  gone  by 
The  stream,  no  more  a  borrower  of  the  sky, 
Flows  dumbly,  all  its  summer  secrets  keeping, 
While  overhead  the  trees,  like  mourners  weeping, 
Whisper  regrets  unceasingly  and  sigh 
For  past  felicity  with  nightly  cry, 
In  storm  or  starlight,  many  pliants  repeating. 

My  heart,  too,  hath  its  winter,  and  I  wonder 
At  the  chill  flood  that  runs  so  coldly  there, 

Waiting  for  Love's  sweet  spring  again  to  sunder 
The  icy  bonds  which  churlish  Time  and  Care 

Have  woven  round  it — yet  I  know  that  under 
This  wintry  garb  there  sleeps  a  garden  fair. 


75 


THE  BACK  LOG 

THE  sun's  warm  eye  looked  for  a  hundred 
years 

Upon  a  tree  from  flawless  acorn  sprung; 
Its  sturdy  arms  were  resolutely  flung 
To  battle  with  the  storm  among  its  peers ; 
Unnumbered  feathered  generations  sung 
Matins  and  vespers  with  melodious  tongue 
Safe  in  its  leafy  altars,  and  the  tears 

Of  raintime  and  of  dewtime  pendant  clung 
From  twig  and   burnished  leaflet.     Then  there 

came 

The  woodman,  and  the  stately  tree  fell  down, 
But  not  to  sad  decay — a  splendid  flame 

Leaped  from  its  circles  like  a  golden  crown, 
And  all  the  sun  had  given,  it  returned 
Upon  the  Christmas  hearthstone  where  it  burned. 


CHRISTMAS  AT  HOME 

WHEN,  downward  sweeping  from  the  frozen 
zone, 

The  winds  blow  keenly,  rough  with  voices  rude, 
Making  more  drear  the  wintry  solitude 
Of  barren,  birdless  land  and  farmstead  lone, 
How  those  bright  evenings  round  the  fire  atone 
For  loss  of  summer,  and  her  fair  display 
Is  half  forgotten  near  the  genial  ray 
Of  ruddy  embers  on  the  warm  hearthstone. 

Range  on  in  vain,  O  breath  of  arctic  sea ! 

Thou  canst  not  chill  the  souls  to  love  inclined. 
Each  flower  shall  gently  flourish  safe  from  thee, 

That  blooms  within  the  summer  of  the  mind. 
And  so  at  Christmas-tide  we  meet,  we  part, 
Within  the  sunny  tropics  of  the  heart. 


77 


SUNRISE 

WHEN  that  pale  covenant  'twixt  day  and 
dark 

Is  written  on  the  sad  and  sulky  sky 
By  Morning's  phantom  fingers,  and  a  sigh 
Of  aspiration  faint  preludes  the  lark, 
Then  in  suspense  my  spirit,  like  a  spark 

Almost  expiring,  breathless  waits  to  spy 
The  treaty  broken,  and  the  Dawn  deny 
The  rule  of  Night,  before  the  Heaven's  hierarch. 

My  soul,  which  fluttered  but  on  drooping  wings, 
Now  thrills  with  something  from  celestial  deeps; 

A  sense  of  oneness  with  the  power  it  brings 
Who  bade  the  Sun  arise,  and  watchful  keeps 

My  soular  orb  within  its  radial  rings, 

Illumined  by  the  love  which  never  sleeps. 


MARCH 

A  RUDE  swashbuckler,  puffing  wind  and  sleet 
Between  the  ranks  of  Winter  and  of  Spring; 
Holding  allegiance  to  the  Icy  King 
As  rear  guard  to  his  majesty's  retreat; 
But  not  too  loyal,  prone  to  turn  his  feet 
Where  he  can  hear  the  pretty  April  sing 
Of  budding  flowers  and  bluebirds  on  the  wing, 
And  balmy  rains  that  violets  entreat. 

Sometimes  the  witching  softness  of  this  lay 
Takes  hold  upon  his  wild  inconstant  mind, 

That  he  deserts  his  leige,  and  bends  his  way, 
Love  sick,  to  woo  the  lady  coyly  kind  ; 

And  on  those  days  when  he  employs  his  wiles, 

All  earth  breaks  forth  in  sunshine  and  in  smiles. 


79 


FEBRUARY 

FEW  singers  chaunt  thy  praises  now,  but  I, 
I  find  some  beauty  in  thy  cold  gray  sky, 
Which  as  a  mantle  thou  dost  wear  to  hide 
The  poverty  that  men  with  scorn  deride. 
True,  thou  hast  neither  bud  nor  bloom  nor 

grain, 

Nor  happy  bird,  nor  fair  inviting  slopes. 
Linked  to  the  winter  with  an  icy  chain 
Thy  chilly  frown  obscures  upspringing  hopes. 

Naked  and  desolate  thy  fields  lie  bare 
Like  an  old  face  with  many  lines  of  care. 
Still  thou  dost  ever  hold  within  thine  hand 

At  least  one  day,  forethought  of  summer  bliss, 
That  wakes  a  quiver  in  the  torpid  land, 

And  all  thy  days  are  dear  to  me  for  this. 


MARS 

SUPERB,  across  the  marches  of  the  sky 
Thy  red  blaze  leads  the  cohorts  of  the  stars 
In  jeweled  phalanx,  while  the  Scorpion  bars 
In  vain  the  sweep  of  thy  vast  company. 
Old  War  God  of  a  primal  world  gone  by, 
A  dread  no  more  with  thy  mysterious  scars, 
A  dream  thou  art  of  new  romance  which  mars 
All  other  dreams  with  its  immensity. 

What  seer  may  pluck  from  thy  abyss  profound 
The  solemn  problems  locked  within  thy  breast  ? 

What  eye  shall  peer  into  thy  glorious  round, 
And  solve  the  secrets  of  our  ardent  quest? 

This    thrill'd   orb    waits    those   lips  which    shall 
rehearse 

Thy  life,  bright  brother  of  the  Universe. 


81 


WORDS 

Poloniui  —  What  do  you  read,  my  lord  f 
Hamlet  —  Words,  •words,  -words. 

SOME  words  there  are,  etherial  and  serene, 
Steeped  with  the  spirit  of  celestial  fire  ; 
Some  with  the  purple  splendor  of  desire, 
And  others  sparkling  as  the  vernal  green, 
First  on  the  margin  of  a  brooklet  seen. 
Some  ghostlike  flit  in  pallid  thin  attire, 
And  some  outsing  the  music  of  the  lyre 
When  golden  notes  £eolian  fingers  glean. 

In  iridescent  pomp  some  others  go, 

With  trumpet  calls,and  winged  rush  of  thought. 
Sounding  the  sob  of  penitential  woe 

Droop  many,  out  of  bitter  grieving  wrought. 
Best  of  them  all,  from  Heaven  or  Hell  beguiled, 
I  love  the  lispings  of  a  little  child. 


8z 


THE  BACH  ARIA  IN  G 

WHEN,  conjured  from  the  palpitating  breast 
Of  'cello  by  a  master's  fond  allure, 
Emerge  those  notes  so  exquisitely  pure, 
So  filled  with  solemn  and  celestial  rest, 
My  spirit  lifted,  floats  upon  the  crest 
Of  billowed  harmonies  in  waves  azure, 
Exalted,  while  those  saintly  sounds  endure, 
As  though  entreated  by  a  heavenly  guest. 

All  things  are  set  to  music.     Every  soul 
Yearns  blindly,  by  some  infinite  decree, 

To  join  the  orchestration  of  the  whole, 
Each  being  set  in  its  own  proper  key. 

My  own  unknown,  revealed  by  this  at  last, 

Is  in  the  omega  of  the  gamut  cast. 


In  memory  of  my  brother  Howard,  who  died 
October  24,  l8jl 

I. 

THE  pomp  and  purple  passion  of  the  year 
Enwrapped  the  hills ;    the  dazzled  earth 
was  dressed 

Like  some  barbaric  queen  in  broidered  vest 
Of  garnet  and  of  gold,  her  flowing  gear 
So  beautiful  that  all  the  atmosphere 

Was  luminant  with  color;  from  the  west 
A  soft  wind  chanting  requiems  of  rest 
Scattered  autumnal  incense  far  and  near. 

That  time  the  Everlasting  loved  thee  most, 
And,  as  a  flame  from  sacred  altar  reft, 

Thy  soul  sprang  up  to  join  th'  immortal  host, 
And  I  was  left.     Alas !  that  I  was  left. 

October's  glory  chills  me  like  a  ghost 

Of  some  old  grief,  for  then  my  heart  was  cleft. 


II. 

ONE  midnight,  by  the  river's  lonely  shore, 
When  stars  were  deeply  awesome,  and  a 
thrill 

Of  holy  aspiration  caused  to  fill 
Our  eyes  with  quiv'ring  teardrops,  and  the  lore 
Of  one  great  seer  we  talked  and  pondered  o'er — 
It  seemed  as  though  we  trod  upon  the  sill 
Of  that  great  temple  none  may  cross  until 
Death  turns  the  noiseless  hinges  of  the  door. 

Then  pledged  we  each  to  each  a  solemn  tie 
By  God  and  by  our  love,  that  he  who  went 

First  to  the  land  beyond  our  mundane  sky 
Should  strive  again  to  reach  this  firmament ; 

Should  come  but  once  with  some  assurance  high 
That  death  is  not  oblivion,  but  ascent. 


III. 

DEAR  brother,  hast  thou  kept  the  faith  with 
me? 

Full  many  years  are  gathered  to  the  past; 
The  hope-light  of  my  hope  is  overcast 
With  gloomy  clouds  of  doubt  that  will  not  flee. 
Love,   genius    and   resolve  —  thou    hadst   these 

three  — 

And  are  they  all  of  no  avail  at  last 
To  break  this  silence  so  profound,  so  vast, 
That  holds  thee  captive  in  eternity  ? 

Through  many  a  vigil  of  the  drowsy  night 
Have  I  sent  out  my  soul  in  search  of  thine; 

Striving  to  rend  the  bonds  that  held  me  tight 
Within  this  clay-built  castle,  to  divine 

Thy  presence  for  one  instant  of  delight. 

In  vain,  in  vain.     Thou  madest  not  one  sign. 


86 


IV. 

THRICE  bless'd  is  he  whom  God  hath  made 
so  sweet 

That,  with  a  charm  to  Midas  all  unknown, 
The  hearts  he  touches,  though  as  cold  as  stone, 
Are  turned  to  radiant  orbs  of  sacred  heat ; 
And  such  a  man  thou  wert;  my  wandering  feet 
Not  yet  have  brought  me  to  thy  peer;  alone 
Thou  art  enshrined  within  the  central  zone 
Of  deep  affection ;  beautiful;  complete; 

Tender  and  brave;  with  courtesy  and  grace 
Descended  from  some  ancestor  remote 

Who  sought  the  Holy  Land  with  sword  and  mace 
And  led  the  charge  when  rang  the  wild  war 
note 

Of  Coeur  de  Leon's  trumpets,  or  was  found 

Among  the  knights  of  Arthur's  table  round. 


V. 


THY  portrait  from  the  wall  looks  down  and 
finds 
No  glance  that  is  not  fondly  love  inspired; 

Too  well  we  know  that  when  thy  lamp  expired 
Our  twilight  fell;  and,  as  the  year  unwinds 
And  brings  thy  fatal  day,  our  pensive  minds 

Recall  thy  virtues ;  leaves  by  autumn  fired 

Are  wreathed  about  thy  picture;  so  attired 
By  gentle  hands,  a  mist  our  vision  blinds 
Of  tender  memories ;  and  methinks  that  time 

Shall  not  again  roll  many  autumns  o'er 
Ere  I  may  haply  seek  that  land  of  thine, 

And  wait  thy  welcome  on  the  fabled  shore. 
However  this  may  be,  I  pray,  dear  heart, 
Be  thou  not  far  when  earth  and  I  shall  part. 


88 


MISCELLA- 
NEOUS POEMS 
AND  LYRICS 


A  ROSE  AROSE 

Arose  arose  in  stately  pride 
At  blush  of  dawn,  and  spreading  wide 
Her  crimson  petals  to  the  air, 
Gave  to  the  quaint  old  garden  there 
The  attar  sweetness  none  outvied. 

The  other  flowers  on  every  side 
With  gentle,  honied  envy  tried 
To  seem  unconscious,  nor  to  care ; 
A  rose  arose. 

Just  then  my  lady  I  descried 
Enter  the  garden  —  dignified 
And  beautiful  beyond  compare, 
The  sun's  kiss  falling  on  her  hair  — 
While  all  the  flowers  in  rapture  cried, 

"  A  rose  !    A  rose  !  " 


IN  MEXICO 

FORGETTING  naugh't  of  those  fair  days 
Which  seemed  the  sweeter  for  the  blaze 
Of  tropic  sun,  and  flowers  run  mad 
With  color,  and  the  joy  they  had 
In  setting  all  our  eyes  agaze, 

I  wonder  in  a  musing  maze 

If  your  remembrance  ever  strays 

Along  that  path,  if  you  are  glad 

Forgetting  naught  ? 

I  still  pursue  prosaic  ways, 
But  something  lost  my  heart  dismays, 
The  landscape  of  my  life  is  clad 
In  pensive  tints,  half  semi-sad  ; 
My  penalty  is  what  one  pays 

For  getting  naught. 


DEVOTION 

FROM  quaint  old  gardens  in  neglect, 
A  subtle  perfume  strays 
That  woos  me  till  I  recollect 

Forgotten  childish  days, 
And  these  sweet  thoughts  I  dedicate, 
Dear  love,  to  thee  always. 

Sometimes  from  music  falls  a  spell 
Which  fills  my  eyes  with  tears 

Of  pain,  or  joy,  I  cannot  tell  — 
But  rapt  my  soul  appears  — 

And  this  to  thee  I  dedicate 
Ere  yet  it  disappears. 

At  midnight,  underneath  the  stars, 

The  angels  of  the  night 
Unlock  my  spirit's  earthly  bars, 

Heaven  seems  almost  in  sight, 
And  this,  dear  love,  I  dedicate 

To  thee  with  sad  delight. 


Whatever  inspiration  sweet 

Can  move  to  high  emprise  — 
Whatever  noble  thought  is  meet 

For  favor  in  thine  eyes  — 
These,  these,  with  love  inviolate, 

To  thee,  to  thee  I  dedicate. 

Whatever  spots  of  crimson  stain 

Deface  my  wayward  life  — 
Whatever  deep  tormenting  pain 

Wakes  up  the  fiends  of  strife  — 
These,  these,  dear  love,  with  hope  and  hate 

To  my  own  self  I  dedicate. 

Be  gentle,  thou,  and  true,  and  mine ; 

Forgive  my  passionate  heart ; 
Then  shall  my  love  be  one  with  thine, 

Thy  love  my  better  part  — 
And  so,  dear  love,  my  faith,  my  fate 

To  thee,  to  thee  I  dedicate. 


94 


A  DINING  ROOM  PANEL 

A  QUIET  conscience  and  a  temper  sweet, 
An  appetite  by  labor  given  zest, 
A  table  spread  with  fruit  and  wine  and  meat, 
A  friend  to  add  his  pleasure  to  the  treat, 
And  man  hath  surely  half  of  this  world's  best. 
Whatever  else  is  good  for  which  he  sighs 
Is  found  or  lost  within  a  woman's  eyes. 


95 


UNKNOWN 

OUR  eyes  have  spoken, 
Though  her  voice  has  never 
Reached  my  attentive  ear ; 
Her  lips  are  mute,  the  silence  all  unbroken 
When  I  am  near, 
And  yet  I  know  that  when  she  laughs,  her 

laughter 

Is  blithe  and  clear, 

And  joyous  as  the  bells  that  follow  after 
When  two  are  fairly  wed 
In  love  before  the  altar, 
And  homeward  led. 

Gay  were  her  glances, 

And  my  heart  woke  newly 

To  chivalry  and  song. 

Sweet  dreams  of  knightly  days  and  old  romances 

Forgotten  long, 

Come  back  again  persistently  elusive, 

To  range  among 

The  cold  sad  thoughts  of  yesterday — intrusive  — 

But  delicately  bold, 

As  some  faint  perfume  hoarded 

In  casket  old. 


96 


Full  well  I  measure, 

And  perceive  the  graces 

That  break  my  soul's  repose, 

The  pliancy  of  form,  the  stately  leisure 

With  which  she  goes, 

Like  animated  music,  or  the  swaying 

Of  wind-bent  rose 

That  bows  before  a  summer  zephyr  straying 

From  happy  isles  afar 

Beyond  the  sunset  ruby, 

Or  evening  star. 

Will  some  kind  fairy, 

When  she  reads  these  verses, 

With  half  reluctant  eyes, 

Whisper  from  whence  they  came,  in  accents  airy 

As  lovers'  sighs  ? 

Will  no  exquisite  intuition 

Her  heart  apprise 

Who  is  it  sends  this  tribute  on  a  mission 

Of  hardly  doubtful  fate  ? 

Ah  !  she  is  scarcely  twenty, 

I  eighty-eight. 


97 


HABIT 

MY  Lady  often  reimburses 
Me  with  kisses 
For  sweet  and  laudatory  verses, 

Then  dismisses 
With  airy  grace,  unrecollecting 

She  forgets  'em. 
My  fees,  however,  need  collecting. 

I  collect  'em. 
She  nothing  cares  for  my  effusions 

One  sadly  sees; 
Then  why  sustain  my  fond  illusion 

By  paying  fees  ? 
I'll  rhyme  no  more,  thus  ascertaining 

Beyond  a  doubt  — 
As  love  for  poetry  is  waning 

And  running  out  — 
If  then  the  habit  is  coercing 

Of  paying  fees  ; 
And  will  abide,  though  I  give  up  rehearsing 

My  melodies. 

LATER 

Abide  it  will;  my  doubts  are  banished  hence; 

Her  habit  strong 
Continues  now  from  pure  benevolence, 

Not  for  my  song. 

98 


OTTO  OF  ROSES 

HE  said  to  her,  smiling  and  bending, 
"Your  theory,  Miss  Hurd, 
Of  a  soul  with  a  future  unending 
Is  sadly  absurd. 

"Will  the  scent  of  the  roses  you  carry 

The  roses  survive? 
Do  you  fancy  the  perfume  will  tarry 

Alone  and  alive? 

"No ;  just  what  the  soul  to  this  clay,  is 

Its  scent  to  the  rose, 
And  each  at  the  touch  of  decay  is 

Enwrapped  in  repose." 

Then  straight  to  a  cabinet  splendid 

Turned  clever  Miss  Hurd, 
And  quickly  the  argument  ended 

With  scarcely  a  word. 

"Now,  sceptic,"  she  cried,  "take  this  casket 

Of  ebon  and  gold, 
Which,  even  to  you,  if  you  ask  it, 

A  truth  may  unfold. 


99 


"Herein  is  a  tiny  amphora 

Three  thousand  years  old. 
Oh  !  you  call  me  a  modern  Pandora  ? 

Don't  be  quite  so  bold." 

He  opened  the  box,  half  disdaining, 

And  found  it  disclose 
A  strange  little  vial  containing 

Pure  otto  of  rose. 

In  a  moment  the  fragrance  emerging 

Had  burdened  the  air 
With  a  sweetness  that  seemed  to  be  verging 

Ecstatic  despair. 

And  he  said,  with  a  bow  of  surrender, 

"  When  flowers  take  your  part 
There  is  nothing  for  me  but  to  tender 

My  soul  and  my  heart." 


THE  BUTTERFLY  AND  THE 
THISTLE 

IT  was  ages  ago,  ages  —  it  may  have 
been  aeons  — 
When  I  remember  myself  living  my  life  in  a 

thistle; 

Blooming  alone  by  a  forest,  there  where  the  day- 
breaking  paeans 
Of  bird  song  awoke  me;  and  late  in  the  twilight 

the  whistle, 

The  mellow  monotonous  notes  of  the  whip-poor- 
will  at  his  vesper, 

Sang  me    to    sleep,  as  I  gazed,  half  asleep,  on 
the  glory  of  Hesper. 

Once  to  my  blossoming  bosom  came,  and  like 

feather  alighted, 
A  mystical  thing  of  the  air,  with  plumage  of 

yellow  and  amber. 
Why    did    I    thrill  with  the  pulses  of  pleasure, 

of  pleasure  affrighted, 

When  to  my  heart  I  beheld  that  butterfly  airily 
clamber  ? 


Brief  was  the  bliss  of  that  hour;  trampled  we  died 

in  an  instant. 
Still  doth  the  vision  persist,  faint  as  a  dream,  yet 

persistent. 
And  when  I  look  in  your  eyes,  deeply  with  eyes 

unremitting, 
I  see  in  their  amber  and  gold   the  ghost  of  that 

butterfly  flitting. 


ON  CAPE  COD 

^  I  AHE  home  of  silence  and  romance, 
JL       An  ivied  tower,  a  glimpse  of  sea 
Far  flickering  in  the  tender  glance 
Of  that  fair  moon  which  beckons  me. 

The  home  of  silence  and  repose, 
Of  breezy  down  and  yellow  sand, 

The  tangled  rapture  of  the  rose 

Whose  sweet  wild  breathing  scents  the  land. 

Land  of  long  days,  and  sunset  shrouds, 

Of  unobstructed  winds  that  fly 
And  fill  with  silver  island  clouds 

The  semicircle  of  the  sky. 

The  home  of  silence  —  solitudes — 
Where,  far  from  all  the  world  of  pain, 

The  spirit  finds  celestial  moods 
And  comes  into  its  own  again. 

The  home  of  silence  and  romance, 

Where  grows  felicity  anew, 
Where  idle  days  I  gave  to  chance, 

And  all  the  perfumed  nights  to  you. 


103 


BOBOLINK 

WHEN  first  he  came  among  us,  in  the  blithe 
and  bonny  spring, 

He  was  poor,  he  was  thin,  but  was  gay; 
And  his  merry  voice  resounded  with  a  silver  bell- 
like  ring, 

And  in  the  low  green  meadows  he  was  always  on 
the  wing, 

Every  day. 

But  a  change  came  o'er  his  spirit,  when  the  moons 

had  numbered  three, 

From  the  flush  and  the  glow  of  that  June. 
No  more  he  rang  his  changes  over  meadow  or  on 

tree, 

For,  prosperous,  and  fat,  and  rich,  no  time  for 
song  had  he  — 
Not  a  tune. 

My  friend  is  like  the  Bobolink:   in  poverty,  and 

young, 

He  was  gay,  he  was  bright,  he  was  glad ; 
But,  alas!    as  "fortune's  minion"  the  jest  upon 

his  tongue 

Has  vanished  with  his  brightness  and  the  song  is 
left  unsung  — 

'Tis  too  bad. 


104 


IN  BERLIN 

in   the   Thier,  a  woodland  garden 
sweet, 

But  half  secluded  from  the  urgent  street, 
He  led  the  lady  of  his  doubts,  to  bid 
Farewell,  ere  taking  flight  for  old  Madrid, 
And  make  with  grace  a  beautiful  retreat. 

Through  her  soft  hand  he  felt  the  pulses  beat, 
And  thought  of  things  that  were,  and  were  not 

meet, 

Regretting  that  the  verdure  but  half  hid. 
'Twas  in  the  Thier. 

The  pathos  of  her  slow  reluctant  feet 
Seemed  clever  acting,  exquisitely  neat — 
He  said  as  much — and  then  her  eyes  were  hid, 
While  to  the  earth  a  crystal  drop  there  slid; 
And  he  surrendered  with  immense  defeat; — 
'Twas  in  the  tear. 


105 


FIDELIS  PAUPERTAS 

IN  tatters  clad  my  mistress  came, 
And  brought  me  ample  dower  of  shame. 
They  called  her  "  Poverty,"  and  I 
In  vain  essayed  her  love  to  fly, 
But  near  me  she  would  still  remain. 

I  heaped  upon  her  bitter  blame, 
Yet  faithfully  she  loves  the  same, 
Though  like  a  beggar  oft  I  sigh 
In  tatters  clad. 

Fidelity,  how  sweet  the  name 
When  joined  with  beauty,  wealth  or  fame, 
But  when  allied  with  her  we  try 
To  ban,  avoid,  detest,  decry, 
Fidelity  may  go  to  flame 
In  tatters  clad. 


106 


OPINIONS  OF  THE  PRESS 

"  The  Butterfly  Press  of  Philadelphia  is  to 
be  held  responsible  for  the  issue  of  a  volume  of 
alleged  verse  by  W.  H.  Howells,  which  also  be- 
longs to  the  Ephemera  in  the  matter  of  weight 
and  longevity,  but  unhappily  not  in  the  liveliness 
of  color  and  movement  which  belong  to  the  Class. 

"  The  Rescue  of  Desdemona  might  be  more 
properly  assigned  to  the  flittermouse  species  on 
account  of  its  evasive  obscurity  and  the  erratic 
incertitude  of  its  literary  flight.  The  only  miti- 
gating circumstance  we  can  discover  in  regard  to 
its  publication  is  that  the  edition  is  limited  to  a 
few  hundred  copies  for  distribution  to  subscribers 
only,  and  in  this  the  public  is  to  be  congratulated. 

"We  venture  to  predict  that  if  the  author 
had  so  many  friends  before  the  issue  of  the  book, 
a  corporal's  guard  will  represent  all  that  are  left 
to  him  after  its  distribution. 

"  The  query  intrudes  itself,  however,  at  this 
point  as  to  whether  the  author  would  not  consider 
1 1. 50  per  friend  as  ample  compensation  for  the 
loss  ?  If  so,  of  course  we  have  no  more  to  say." 
— The  Denver  Dirk. 


"After  several  centuries  of  sentimental  sym- 
pathy for  the  only  Desdemona,  it  has  come  to 
pass  that  one  William  Hooper  Howells  has  had 
the  audacity  to  tamper  with  the  story  of  that  un- 
fortunate heroine,  and  violently  assailing  all  his- 
toric fact,  insists  upon  her  rescue  in  spite  of  every 
protest  raised  by  Time  and  Truth. 

"  The  manner  in  which  he  manages  to  save 
the  life  of  the  lady  is  so  much  more  gruesome 
and  horrible  than  her  histrionic  dissolution,  that 
no  one  can  labor  through  the  turgid  labyrinth  of 
the  tale  without  profanely  grinning  at  the  awful 
sacrilege. 

"  Near  the  base  of  Mt.  Olympus  has  lately 
been  discovered  a  volcanic  cavern  to  the  impene- 
trable obscurity  of  which  we  would  gladly  consign, 
with  motives  absolutely  impeccable,  The  Rescue  of 
Desdemona — and  its  author." — The  Asheville  Asp. 

"  The  Rescue  of  'Desdemona,  and  Other  Verse, 
by  W.  H.  Howells,  makes  so  wide  a  breach  in 
the  ramparts  of  the  commonplace,  that  any  one 
who  cares  to  enter  the  citadel  of  Humor,  the  al- 
most forbidden  city  of  superior  Foolishness,  can 
walk  there  almost  without  an  effort  for  $1.50. 

"  Our  readers  must  be  careful  not  to  attribute 
this  work  to  a  literary  celebrity  of  the  same  pat- 
ryonimic  whose  tender  solicitude  in  regard  to  the 


dignity  of  his  calling  never  permits  him  the 
lambent  levity  which  marks  The  Rescue  of  Desdc- 
mona." — The  Syracuse  Sack  Lac. 

"Joy  to  our  sanctum  found  entrance  with 
The  Rescue  of  Desdemona,  and  Other  Verse,  by  W. 
H.  Howells.  The  mechanical  production  of  the 
book  is  altogether  desirable  and  studiously  artistic, 
while  the  contents  —  whimsical,  quaint,  original 
and  highly  interesting  —  are  refreshingly  promo- 
tive  of  c  innocent  merriment.'  " — Chicopee  Saccha- 
rine Smear. 

£***'« 

"  After  the  foregoing  animadversions  there 
is  little  left  to  say  in  regard  to  Mr.  Howells' 
performance —  The  Rescue  of  De sdemona — except 
to  remark  en  passant  that  while  by  nature  and 
education  we  are  averse  to  acrimonious  contro- 
versy and  all  the  grosser  forms  of  physical  per- 
suasion belonging  to  the  submerged  tenth,  we  feel 
a  vagrant  inclination  to  come  into  personal  contact 
with  this  author,  which  we  trace  solely  to  an 
aspiration  '  to  do  him  good'  and  perhaps  convince 
him  that  a  long  period  of  silence  on  the  part  of 
the  Howells  family  would  prove  a  national  '  con- 
solation devoutly  to  be  wished.' "  —  The  Buffalo 
Biff. 


NOTE 

The  foregoing  Opinions  of  the  Press  were  care- 
fully prepared,  not  necessarily  for  publication,  but  as 
an  evidence  of  good  faith,  and  with  a  benevolent  de- 
sire to  furnish  incompetent  reviewers  with  "  some- 
thing to  sit  upon"  —  in  other  words,  nest  eggs  of 
criticism  from  which  may  be  hatched  by  easy  mental 
incubation  fine  broods  of  diatribe  and  cheerful  con- 
demnation. 

W.  H.  H. 


DRAWINGS  HAVE  BEEN  MADE 
BY  GEORGE  WOLFE  PLANK.  c^-THIS  IS 
THE  FIRST  BOOK  ISSUED  FROM  THE 
BUTTERFLY  PRESS,  TffE 

AT  11Z6   WALNUT    STREET 
IN  PHILADELPHIA, 

FINISHED    IN 
NOVEMBER. 
1906 


ONE  THOUSAND  COPIES  OF  THIS  BOOK  HAVE 
BEEN  PRINTED  BY  INNES  y  SONS  FOR  THE 

'BUTTERFLY    PREJS:    ONE    HUNDRED 

ON  TONED  ENFIELD  PAPER;  NINE  HUNDRED 
ON  TONED  BRIGHTON  PAPER;  AND  THE  TYPE 
DISTRIBUTED.  THIS  IS  NUMBER  /  & 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  LOS  ANGELES 
THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 

This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below 


; 


jngttt 
2&> 


JAN  2 1 1991 


REC'D  LD-URL 

PHION   iffci  o  "Qf 

MAR  0  3  wl 


THE  LIBRARY 

/  OF  CALIFORNIA 


University  of  California.  Los  Angeles 

lIHIIlIUIlli 

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OTJVF-PERCIVAL 


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